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STREET & SMITH’S SELECT SERIES-NO. 4. 

POPULAR AMERICAN COPYRIGHT STORIES. 


SubsceipSn pklCEfS’^PEKYEAE. NOVEMBER, 1887. 

Entered at (he Post Office, New York, as Second-Class Matter, 


BONNY JEAN, 


AND 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


BY 

MRS. E. BURKE COLLINS, 

Author of “Married for Gold,” “The Creole’s Crime,” etc. 


(DOUBLE NUMBER.) 


NEW YORK: 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 

31 Hose Street, 





Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1887, 

By Street & Smith, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C 


BONNY JEAN 


CHAPTER I. 

SWORN TO THE DEAD. 

The southern sun was slowly dying in the sky, passing away 
in royal state, down a pathway paved with gold, and with ban- 
ners of Tyrian purple, and rose, and amber all about. It shone 
in a mist of wondrous glory over the dense green pine woods, 
laving the river’s breast with molten gold ; it made its way 
through the thickest of forest trees upon the banks of the swift 
flowing Tangipahoa, and strayed in through the open door of 
a log-cabin, resting with caressing touch upon the silvery hair 
and white, worn features of the old man who lay upon his rude 
bed silent and alone. 

The lamp of life was burning low, and after long years of 
toil and hardship and strange adventure, old David Conway lay 
dying, and he knew that ere another sun should rise he would 
be gone. His had indeed been a rough and toilsome exist- 
ence, hewing a living out of the sturdy oaks and pines which 
grew so thickly in that portion of the South at the period upon 
which my story opens ; and many a shining dollar had he made 
with his industrious hands. But all that was over. He had 
struck his last blow ; the ax would never again be lifted by the 
strong hands, frail and weak now as a child’s ; and soon the 
place that knew him would know him no more. 

Everything was very still within the cabin ; no sound broke 

the silence, only the swift flow of the river as it swept by, and 


4 


BONNY JEAN 


the slow, labored breathing of the dying man. All at once a 
stray sunbeam touched his white face, and his eyes flew open, 

“Philip,"' he called, softly, “Philip Randall, are you there ?” 

A young man who had been standing outside the open door, 
his eyes turned eagerly upon the distant road, which wound its 
way, like a serpent, in and out among the pines, started as the 
faint voice called his name, and hurriedly entered the cabin. 

“Philip ! " — the old man’s voice was very feeble — “have they 
come ?” 

Philip’s handsome face grew graver. 

“No, sir," he returned, reluctantly, “not yet." 

His tone was gentle and refined, his words well chosen. 
Despite his rough surroundings, you could see at a glance that 
Philip Randall was a gentleman. 

“ They have been unavoidably delayed, I am sure," he con- 
tinued, bending over the old man as he spoke. “The roads 
are very bad since the late rains, you know, and — and — Mrs. 
Conway is not strong. They will surely come soon. So you 
think, Conway, that you will — that you will " he hesitated. 

“That Til last until they come, Randall?” the old man in- 
terrupted. “Don’t be afraid to speak out, Phil. It’s death 
that’s on me — I know all about it ! Wal, wal, I’m ready and 
glad to go ; Tm but a worn-out, useless hulk, and I long to get 
into harbor. But — I cant die until my wife conies home — my 
wife and bonny, bonny Jean." 

He sighed heavily, his breath came more slowly and with 
greater effort now. 

“Where’s Black?" he asked, abruptly. 

“I don’t know, sir. Wait, I will go and see.” 

He left the cabin with hurried step, his frank face sad and 
grave in the fading sunlight, and hastened to the group of 
cabins a little removed, which marked the camp of the timber- 
men. Hardly was he out of sight when there appeared at the 
door of the cabin the figure of a man — tall, angular, ill-fa- 
vored. His face was very pale, and his hair and eyes jet black ; 


SONNY JEAN. 


6 


there was an uneasy, restless glitter in the latter as he hurried 
inside the cabin and glanced around cautiously. 

“You wanted to see me, Conway?” he whispered, nervously. 
“You wished to have that little matter settled, did you not ?” 

The old man turned his head slowly on the pillow, and 
glanced at the new-comer. 

“Ah, Black!” he faltered, “you’re there, are you? Wal, 
bring the paper — quick, while Fve got strength left to sign it. 
You’re a good sort o’ a chap. Black.” 

The man drew slowly near the bedside with a cat-like tread, 
a folded paper in his hand. His eyes shone with a fierce, greedy 
glare, and he trembled with repressed excitement. There were 
pen and ink on a rude shelf near. He dipped the pen into the 
ink and placed it in Conway^’s trembling hand — passing his arm 
around the old man’s shoulders, and supporting him as he did 
so. The sound of approaching footsteps fell on his ears, and 
made him start guiltily. 

‘'Sign!” he cried, hurriedly, indicating the spot with his 
forefinger. 

Slowly and laboriously the old man traced the letters with the 
trembling hand that would soon be cold in death ; slowly and 
tremulously — but at last the name stood there, plain and star- 
ing— “ David Conway r Then he fell back on the pillow pant- 
ing and exhausted. 

“The witnesses!” he gasped, feebly— “call some one to 
witness. ” 

Just outside the cabin, two men — rough, illiterate fellows 
were loitering. Black beckoned them to enter. 

“ Here, Burns— Norris, ” he said, in his soft, sleek voice, his 
glittering black eyes studying their bearded faces attentively. 
“Mr. Conway has been arranging his worldly affairs, and we 
need witnesses to the document. Sign your names, if you 
please, here,” pointing to the proper place. 

One after the other the two men scrawled their signatures, 
and then Black folded the document and thrust it into his 


6 


BONNT JEAK 


pocket. Scarcely had he disappeared when Philip entered 
hurriedly. 

“ They are coming, Mr. Conway,” he cried, excitedly. 
hear that they crossed the ferry just before sunset, and they may 
be expected any moment. Are you feeling any easier, sir ?” 

He sat down by the rude bedside, and took the cold hand in 
his own. 

“Easy, did you say, Philip? No, I sha’n’t never be any 
better in this world, but — there’s another country, you know, 
my boy. I’ll drop anchor there afore many hours. But, Phil, 
since I am goin’ to peg out sure enough, I want to tell you 
somethin' ; never told no other man — no other livin’ critter, 
since I had the secret to tell. There ain't nobody eavesdrop- 
pin’, is there, Phil ? No ? Wal, listen to what I’m goin’ to 
say.” 

The young man bent his head over the emaciated figure, still 
clasping the wrinkled hand in his own. 

“ There’s a paper,” continued the dying man, feebly. “Ga- 
briel Black’s got it. It’s all right, Philip — all right. You’ll do 
what the paper says ?” 

“I’ll do whatever you desire, Mr. Conway,” he returned, 
earnestly. 

“But,” faltered the broken voice, while the dim eyes searched 
the handsome, open face before him, “I haven’t told you the 
secret yet, you know, Phil, and — it’s gettin’ dark and cold in 
here. The secret, you see, wasn’t in that paper that Black’s 
got ; it’s a secret o’ my own, and nobody don’t know nothin' 
about it — rjWJiember that ! Philip, you’ve heered tell o’ La 
Fitte, the pirate ?” 

Philip Randall’s face wore a look of surprise. 

“Certainly, sir. “ Who has not?” 

“Wal, my father, old John Conway, once done La Fitte a 
good turn. He— the pirate, I mean— Fm very cold, Phil— he 
come mighty near bein’ killed by a band o’ Indians. They’d 
just got a hold o' the brave feller— for he was brave and bold, 


BOXNY JEAN. 


7 


though a bad man, I ’spose — and jest as he was expectin^ to 
pass in his checks my father happened along. Old Conway 
was a crack shot in them days, Phil, and afore you could say 
Jack Robinson, two o' them redskins bit the dust. I reckon 
the balance o' them got well skeered — maybe they thought there 
was more like John Conway a cornin' — but anyhow they all 
turned quick and jest run away — beat by one single man. Ha ! 
ha ! Pretty good, wasn’t it ? Wal, La Fitte was mighty 
grateful, and he told my father that he'd never forgit him. And 
he didn’t Phil, though nobody but me on airth knows the 
truth o’ the matter. You’ve heered the old story, how La Fitte 
had plenty o' treasure buried in different parts o’ the country 
around Louisiana } Wal, the fust thing my father knowed the 
pirate died, and left him a big pile, mostly gold, and he hid it 
safe away in the ground ; for, you see, the only bank that La 
Fitte knowed was a sand bank. And Phil, he buried that there 
treasure at a certain point on the Tanghipahoa river. But my 
father never dared to touch it — never made an effort to dig up 
the treasure. Phil — he was afeered. So he left it there, and 
when he died, six months ago — nigh onto a hundred years old, 
my boy — he told me all about it, and left it to me. But Fve 
never had the strength to sarch for it, and now Pm struck down, 
and there it lays. If I had a son I’d tell him all about it, and 
leave it to him as a legacy. But Jean’s all I’ve got, and she, 
poor child, must have that gold, Philip — it’s her airthly all. 
Will you see arter it, my boy? You know I trust you afore 
anybody in the wide world.” 

Philip pressed the wrinkled hand which he held. 

“ I will do the best I can,” he replied, “ for — I love Jean — 
will you leave her in my care, Mr. Conway ?” 

“Willin’ — ay ! and glad to do it. Thank God ! my gal will 
be well cared for. And you’ll be good to the mother, Philip ?” 

‘>^As though she were my own,” he responded, fervently. 

“Wal, now, my boy. I’m agoin’ to tell you. Wait a minute ; 
see fust ain’t there somebody listenin’, Phil. 'Pears like I hear 


BONNY JEAN 


8 > 

the sound o' heavy breathin' — look, boy I Be sure, for I'm 
goin' to tell you where to find this buried treasure. It’s a brave 
lot, Philip, and maybe you’ll think my mind’s a wanderin’ when 
I tell you all. It is — bend your head and listen — closer ! that’s 
right — it is a hull chist o’ gold and jewels.” 

“Mr. Conway!” 

“ Philip — I’m a dyin’. Do you think that old Conway, who’s 
always led a upright, honest life, on the square, would tell you 
a base lie on his death-bed ? I repeat it, Philip Randall, it’s a 
chist — an iron-bound chist — full o’ gold and shinin’ jewels — 
and it’s buried away under ground. Listen. On the banks o’ 
the Tangipahoa, Philip, a mile below Lee’s Landin’, near the 
lake swamp, you’ll find, jist about high water mark, five gum 
trees growin’ in a circle. One has a big cross cut into its bark ; 
dig down under that tree, Phil, and there you'll find it. It’s for 
my child, and my curse — the curse of the dyin’ — rest upon 
whoever touches it that hain’t got no right to do it. It belongs 
to Jean, and Jean’s husband, Philip.” 

The old man’s voice was very faint now, and his eyes were 
glazing rapidly. 

“You’ll promise to do as I ask you ?” 

The young man bowed his head. 

“I promise,” he answered, solemnly. 

“God bless you !” 

For a time a heavy silence brooded over all things. Then 
suddenly Philip Randall sprang to his feet. 

“ Mrs. Conway I” he cried aloud. “ They have come — ^your 

wife — and Jean.” 

But the dull eyes saw not, the deaf ears scarce comprehended, 
as in through the open door-way two women, all travel-stained 
and splashed with mud and water, rushed wildly, and fell upon 
their knees beside the bed. Old David could no longer see 
them, but his lips moved slowly. 

“God bless my poor wife !” he murmured, faintly. ‘‘God 
bless my little gal ! Jean !” 


BONNY JEAN. 


9 


She hung about his neck, sobbing as though her heart would 
break. 

“ It’s in the — paper, darlin’, ” he faltered, brokenly ; “ Gabriel 
Black has it. You’ll do as I — tell you in that paper, dearie?” 

‘‘I will, father,” she sobbed. 

“Sw’arit, Jean.” 

“ I swear it,” she responded, solemnly. 

A look of content stole over the old man’s face. It was get- 
ting dark in the cabin, but dark and light were both alike to 
him now. 

‘^Good-by, good-by,” he whispered, faintly; and ere they 
scarcely realized it he was gone — gone to that “upper country,” 
where there is no pain or sorrow, never any more. 

As soon as the weeping women had been led away from the 
cabin, and naught remained save the rigid form, which lay there 
with its white face upturned and ghastly, forth from behind the 
bed — where he had lurked all this time, his presence undreamed 
of, serpent that he was — crawled Gabriel Black. His eyes shone 
with a fiendish delight, and he langhed aloud as he clutched the 
signed paper. 

“ The game is in my own hands,” he chuckled ; “and now, 
Philip Randall, it lies between you and me — betwixt man and 
man. You’d better look out for yourself, my friend.” 

He sneaked away through the coming gloom, and the shades 
of twilight hid him. 

And night descended. Darkness crept on apace. The hoot- 
owl startled the echo with its frightful shriek ; the frogs were 
croaking in a doleful concert ; an occasional night bird flew 
past the old cabin like a thing of ill-omen ; the crickets chirped 
in the grass, and the placid Tangipahoa flowed onward between 
its broad, green banks down to Lake Pontchartrain. 

And in that sylvan spot a deed of darkness was plotted that 
night — a deed that would curdle the blood in one’s veins. Yet 
here nature claimed dominion, and the pure, blue sky, spread 
out with its myriad stars— God’s lamps all alight — shone above 


10 


BONNY JEAN 


it all; while, unrebuked, the creatures, made in God’s image 
and after His own likeness,” went on their sin-stained way — the 
only blot on the Maker’s handiwork — full of plots against the 
lives and happiness of their fellow-creatures. 


CHAPTER II. 

A FATAL MARRIAGE. 

The funeral of old David Conway was over. Reverently they 
laid him to rest — those strong-armed, kind-hearted men, whose 
lives had been passed in the solitude of the pine forest, and who 
knew more concerning saw-logs and wharf timber than books, 
and etiquette, and society’s requirements. Yet their hearts 
were very tender, and more than one eye was conspicuously 
bright and moist, as they stood around the open grave, and 
watched their late comrade lowered to his last resting-place. 

Philip Randall had come to the timber camp that summer 
for a long vacation, hoping to grow strong and healthy among 
the pines. And, being the best shot in the camp, the most 
accomplished oarsman, the crack swimmer, and, withal, splen- 
didly educated, it was not strange that among those rough men 
a feeling of admiration, hearty and sincere, had sprung up. 
For the young chap had not “put on airs;” with all his city 
breeding, he had quickly learned their ways, and assimilated 
himself to their simple habits while he remained in their midst. 
But another sort of feeling had sprung up in Gabriel Black’s 
heart, though of this no one dreamed. Black hated Philip 
Randall from the first. He hated all lawyers, he said (Philip 
was a rising member of the bar), and would be heartily glad 
when the young upstart would leave the place. But that 
seemed far from the lawyer’s intention. He liked the free, 
untrammeled life of the forest, and his vacation was quite a pro- 
longed one. He had made the acquaintance of old David 


Bomr jjsak: 


11 


Conway on" the first day of his arrival, and soon obtained per- 
mission to board at the Conway cabin. He liked the old man, 
with his bluff, honest good humor ; he liked little, timid, 
shrinking Mrs. Conway — a Kentucky lady by birth, who, hav- 
ing married the backwoodsman, had accepted her lot philsoph- 
ically, and settled down to life in the pine woods ; but he loved 
the daughter — sole heiress of the house of Conway — bonny 
Jean, as every one called her. 

When Philip first became an inmate of the Conway house, 
Jean had been passing her vacation at home ; but a short time 
previous to the opening of my story, she had returned to the 
seminary in New Orleans, where she was being educated. Jean 
was like a fairy, blue-eyed, yellow-haired, a perfect little beauty, 
destined to turn men’s heads and derange their hearts. Withal, 
she was good and pure as an angel, and every man and woman 
in the camp would have lain down their lives in her defense. 

Old Conway had been ailing long, but the last sudden stroke, 
which had taken him from them, had come quite unexpectedly. 
Jean had been sent for at once, and her mother had ridden to 
the station, some ten miles distant, to receive her daughter, and 
break the news as gently as possible. And they had arrived 
just in time ; a few moments later and they would have been 
too late. 

And so, it was all over ; and all that remained of the old 
man, kind husband and tender father, was the long, red, clay- 
covered mound on the river-bank, beneath the wide-spreading 
branches of a huge live oak, from whose drooping boughs the 
long, gray moss trailed, like funeral badges of faded crape, 
over the old man’s grave ; while a mocking-bird, whose nest 
was near, sang all day long in a neighboring magnolia. 

j|e * ♦ ♦ * ♦ ♦ 

Mrs. Conway and her daughter sat alone in their lonely cabin 
home the morning after the funeral. The world was all before 
them, and their life in the pine woods was ended, for they could 


12 


Bomr JEAN, 


remain there no longer, and they must endeavor to lay some 

plan for the future. 

A rap at the door aroused them, and in response to Mrs. 
Conway’s summons the door opened, and Gabriel Black stood 
before them. He was dressed in a plain suit of black, which 
made his pale face appear even paler, while his deep, uncanny 
eyes glared from their cavernous sockets with a wild, unpleasant 
gleam. In one long, thin, yellow hand he held a folded paper, 
and as he bowed deferentially, he opened this paper slowly. 

“ Mrs. Conway,” he began, in his sleek, suave tone, “ Miss 
Jean, I have in my possession a document, executed at your 
father’s, desire, the evening before he died. It had been his in- 
tention to ask Mr. Randall, as a lawyer, and of course under- 
standing such matters, to draw up the paper, but Mr. Randall 
had gone to the village for a doctor, and Mr. Conway feared 
that when he would return it might be too late, so he begged 
me to attend to the matter, and of course I did the best I could. 
You remember. Miss Jean” — he turned suddenly, and his glit- 
tering, beady eyes transfixed Jean Conway’s blue ones — “your 
father wished you to promise him something when he was dying ; 
nay, I believe” — here a strange, half smile stole over his re- 
pulsive face — “that you swore to follow his wishes! Am I 
correct ?” 

“ You are,” returned Jean, coldly, rising as she spoke, and 
leaning one elbow on the rough wooden mantel ; “but I do not 
understand how that can possibly concern j>ou r 

“It concerns me a great deal,” he returned, sardonically, 
“as you will discover when you learn the contents of this 
paper ; and of course no woman would think of breaking an 
oath made to a dying father 1 Shall I read the document aloud, 
Mrs. ConwBy ?” he added, turning to the widow. 

She bowed. 

“As you like,” she returned, quietly. 

“Very well.” 

Gabriel Black drew a long breath of triumph, and began at 


BONNY JEAN 


13 


once to read from the paper in his hand, while with faces grow- 
ing slowly pale as death, and eyes dilating with fear and horror, 
the mother and daughter listened : 


“ I, David Conway, being about to leave this world, and go before my 
Maker, do solemnly express to you, my daughter, Jean Conway, my last 
wish. It is that you become the wife of my dear and tried friend, Gabriel 
Black, as soon after my decease as possible. He has been to me the best 
of -friends, and in his hands I leave the disposition of all my wordly affairs. 

“Signed, David Conway, 

“Tangipahoa River. 


“John Burns, 

“ Peter Norris, [ 


{■ Witnesses. 


May 1 6th, i8- 


“ God in heaven 

Mrs. Conway sprang to her feet, pale as a specter. Jean 
turned and faced the villain bravely. 

“Gabriel Black !” she cried, sternly, “do you think to im- 
pose upon me with such a fabrication ? You are an impostor, 
and a cowardly villain. As such I defy you. Leave this house, 
sir, and never dare again to contaminate it with your presence 

His midnight eyes swept the young girl from head to foot, 
and he smiled — a cruel, mocking smile. 

“ Not so fast, bonny Jean !” he exclaimed, boldly ; “not so 
fast, my fine lady ! Here, Mrs. Conway,’' he added, holding 
the fatal paper before the poor woman’s frightened eyes, “ tell 
me truly and honestly, is not that signature in David Conway’s 
handwriting ?” 

The widow’s eyes devoured the document, hoping against 
hope, for some flaw, and as she gazed she trembled like a leaf 
in the wind. 

“ God help us 1” she moaned, feebly, “it is! Jean, Jean! 
there is something here which I cannot understand ; neverthe- 
less, it is your father’s handwriting, without a doubt, and you 
know his signature was a peculiar one, not easily imitated. But 
still I cannot — cannot comprehend this thing.” 


“ Well, madam,” returned Black, “ I can soon make it clear 


14 


BONNY JEAN 


to you. Your late husband was aware that I am very wealthy ; 
that I have large sums of money safely invested ; and as he 
wished his daughter’s future provided for — and yours, too, 
for, of course, I shall do all in my power, madam, to render you 
comfortable — and as he respected and esteemed me as a friend, 
he did me this honor. If you have any doubt concerning the 
authenticity of this document — though you have already recog- 
nized your husband’s signature — you have only to question 
Burns and Norris, the two witnesses, and they will corroborate 
my words. In conclusion, I have only to add that it is my wish 
that the ceremony be performed as soon as possible. You two 
are alone, and need a protector ” 

“ I will die first !” cried Jean, indignantly. “I will never 
submit, Gabriel Black !” 

“Oh, yes, you will,” he said, softly, but there was a world 
of meaning in his eyes. “Perhaps you are thinking of inter- 
position from young Randall ? But, if you cherish such hopes, 
Miss Jean, you had better dismiss them at once, for Philip 
Randall is a married man. ” 

“That is false !” 

“It is true. His wife is living in New Orleans, and I can 
prove it to your satisfaction. Furthermore, he has gone back 
to the city this morning on the early train. Nobody else in the 
camp here knows his whereabouts, but I have kept my eyes 
upon his movements for a long time. However, that has 
nothing to do with the subject in hand. The question is this : 
Will you consent to a quiet marriage, or will you break the 
solemn oath sworn to your dying father?” 

“Jean ! Jean ! My poor child !” 

Mrs. Conway wound her arms around her daughter’s slender 
form, and her tears fell fast upon the goldon head. Silence 
reigned throughout the cabin. 

“ You dare not break your oath, Jean,” cried her mother, 
still holding the slim form close to her heart. “ Yet, how can 
you keep it ? My God ! what shall we do ?” 


BONNY JEAN 


15 


Jean glanced up, her face pale and set, and a strange, firm 
expression lighting her countenance. 

“No, mother,” she said, calmly, “I cannot break my oath. 
Jean Conway has never broken her plighted word. Gabriel 
Black !” — she turned to the man with a scornful look, and her 
clear voice rang out in tones of defiance — “you are the most 
contemptible villain on the face of the earth, and I loathe you 
more than the vilest reptile in my path. Nevertheless, I have 
sworn, and I will keep my promise. I will go through the 
farce of a marriage ceremony whenever you see fit.”’ 

“Jean,” gasped Mrs. Conway, “wait.” 

“No,” replied the girl, firmly, “if the sacrifice is to be 
made at all, it may as well be made at once. ” 

Perhaps the poor girl was urged on by the whip of scorpions 
embodied in the villain’s allegations regarding Philip Randall. 
At all events, her word was passed, there was no going back on 
it, and Jean knew it. 

Gabriel Black had played his cards well. The license was al- 
ready in his pocket. An illiterate preacher from the nearest 
village was sent for immediately, and then, much to the amaze- 
ment of the men in the camp, as well as their honest, kind- 
hearted wives, the announcement of the expected marriage was 
speedily made. They gathered from all quarters of the timber 
camp, and flocked around the open door of the cabin, where 
Jean stood beside her mother ; the faces of the dead could be 
no whiter than these two ; while in Jean’s eyes shone a lofty 
courage, an indomitable will not easily broken. 

And so, in the quiet of that fair May day, with the birds 
chanting the sweetest of anthems in the boughs of the great 
trees outside the cabins, and the smiling river dashing by mer- 
rily, while the golden sunlight lay in shining patches on the 
new-made grave under the live oak, the ceremony was per- 
formed. The poor girl made the requisite responses, and Ga- 
briel Black and Jean Conway were pronounced husband and 
wife. When it was all over, and the last words of the ceremony 


16 


BONNY JEAN 


had been said, th6 bride turned toward the new-made husband, 
and pointed one trembling finger at the craven. 

“Gabriel Black,” she said, slowly, and her voice, though 
low, was wonderfully clear and distinct, “I have fulfilled my 
share of this hateful contract. I have become your wife ; but 
never dare to claim me ; never dare to show your hated face in 
my presence. Out of my way, sir I There is j^our road ; mine 
is in another direction.” 

And before the astonished group could utter a word, Jean 
drew her mother’s hand through her arm and led her from the 
cabin. Gabriel Black stood transfixed with astonishment, too 
overcome by surprise to attempt pursuit. And the two women 
hurried away. 

In a pasture, inclosed by a rail fence, and quite out of sight 
of the camp, two horses were grazing peacefully — creole ponies, 
short of limb and shaggy of hide, but with any amount of “go” 
in them. These creole ponies possess wonderful endurance. 
They can carry you miles on a keen gallop, eat rice straw for 
food, seldom taste grain, and do not know the meaning of a 
stable. On the river-bank, near by, under a huge cypress tree, 
a diminutive negro boy lay, a straw hat, without a rim, perched 
on the back of his wooly head, his face black as ebony, his 
round eyes lazily watching the fishing-rod, which he patiently 
held, with the hope of catching a cat-fish for the evening gum- 
bo. Jean approached the boy hastily. 

“Zip,” she cried, “come here.” 

The boy sprang to his feet, and, having fastened his fishing- 
rod in the forks of a tree which leaned over the edge of the 
stream, hastened to where the two stood, doffing his apology 
for a hat. 

“Sarvent, miss,” said he, showing all his ivory teeth in a 
broad grin. 

“Zip,” continued Jean, trying to speak carelessly, “I want 
you to go into the pasture and catch Dixie and General. Sad- 


BONNY JEAN. 


17 


die them as quickly as you can, and bring them here. If the 
horses are ready in ten minutes, I’ll give you a dime. ” 

“Yah, yah !” laughed the boy, as he darted off like an arrow 
from a bow, “I’ll do dat, suah.” 

Mrs. Conway stood nervously clutching Jean’s sleeve. She 
knew that Black did not dream of what was going on ; but it 
would be impossible to keep the truth concealed from him long, 
and she trembled like an aspen at thought of the certain con- 
sequences. 

In an incredibly short time the horses were ready, and, slip- 
ping the coveted dime into the boy’s hand, Jean vaulted into 
her own saddle, while Mrs. Conway followed suit. Jean 
gathered the bridle reins in her hand and wheeled her horse 
about. 

“ If any one asks any questions. Zip,” she commanded, “you 
don’t know anything about us. Do you hear ?” 

“Ye.s, Miss Jean.” 

And the girl stooped and whispered to her mother : 

“We will go right to Lee’s. I am sure they will shelter us, 
and perhaps assist us. Come, mother,, be brave I Please God. 
we will escape that villain and punish him yet.” 

They gave their horses the reins, and flew away over the 
roads strewn with brown pine leaves, and with the fragrance of 
the sweet pink azalea all about. On they flew, and long before 
Black had realized the truth of the situation they were miles 
away. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE HOUSE BY THE WAYSIDE. 

Meanwhile where was Philip Randall ? Early that morning 
he had arisen determined to start before sunrise for the spot 
which poor old Conway had indicated as the burial-place of 
the wonderful treasure, Philip sprang into the pirogue, which 


18 


BONNY JEAN 


was fastened to a great cypress, and was soon paddling away 
down stream. He had decided not to reveal the secret to Jean 
and her mother. They had never dreamed of its existence ; it 
would be better not to tell them until he had proved that there 
was no mistake about it. The two, poor things, had trouble 
enough to bear without enduring what might prove to be a 
grievous disappointment. “Blessed is he who expects 
nothing,’’ quoth Philip to himself, as he paddled his canoe 
along, “for then he will not be disappointed.” 

On he went, pausing at last, when he had neared Lee’s Land- 
ing. Here he fastened his boat, and hastened on foot. 

“A mile below Lee’s Landing,” he muttered to himself, as 
he trudged along, “on the river-bank, just above high-water 
mark ; five gum trees growing in a circle ; odd, that ! Reckon 
I’ll find it — whewT 

He paused in astonishment; for a thick, dense smoke arose 
in his pathway, and barred his further progress. Thick, black 
folds of smoke, with fiery tongues darting in and out, licking 
up everything in their way. Philip realized the truth then. 
The woods were on fire ! 

“ It’s not the proper season to burn the grass for the cattle,” 
he ejaculated, in perplexity; “then how on earth came the fire 
here ! If it were possible for any one else to be possessed of 
David Conway’s secret, I would declare that some enemy had 
done this thing ; that this fire is the work of a malicious foe to 
prevent my going in search of the buried gold, until the woods 
shall be so so burned that all landmarks will be obliterated.” 

He glanced around in dismay. No hope ! Fire to the right 
of him, save where the river ran on cheating it in its work of 
destruction ; fire to the left — a horrible wall of seething flame; 
fire before him — a dreadful dividing line, before which no power 
on earth could pass and live. It was no use ; he must return, 
his object ungained. 

He had desired to find the place, then return and dig for the 
hidden treasure ; and, once in possession, he would have gone 


jBomr JEAN. 


10 


to ^Irs. Conway and delivered it to her, then — he dared think 
no further in the future. He loved Jean with all his heart ; he 
was good, and true, and honorable, and he had reason to be- 
lieve that Jean cared for him ; but no words of love had ever 
passed between them. There is a language of the eye which 
speaks from heart to heart, and often expresses more than lip or 
tongue. 

Full of disappointment, Philip re-entered the boat, turned it 
about, and so went back to the timber camp. He had scarcely 
landed on his arrival when Gabriel Black appeared. 

“ Here, Randall,” he began, in a friendly manner, “here is 
a telegram which one of the boys brought out from the station 
for you. No bad news, I hope.” 

Philip tore it hastily open. As he glanced it over, his face 
paled, and his eyes were full of sadness. 

‘ ‘ Bad news, indeed !” he exclaimed. “ My mother is dying, 
and I must go home at once. But before I go I must see Mrs. 
Conway and — Miss Jean.” 

“They have gone to pass the day with some friends, I am 
told,” remarked Gabriel Black, quietly. “Leave a line of 
adieu for them, Randall. I will see that they receive it.” 

Of course Philip did not dream of any duplicity, and he fell 
into the snare at once. He scribbled a friendly note to the two 
ladies, and left it in Black's care. Then, without waiting to 
pack his clothes, he sprang on the back of Gabriel’s horse, 
which stood saddled near by, and which its owner willingly 
loaned,, and was out of sight in a moment. 

He arrived in New Orleans that night, and went straight 
home, and the first person whom he met — alive and well — was 
his mother. Philip saw at once that there was some plot, and 
that he was the victim. 

“I begin to perceive,” he cried desperately, “that there is 
something in the wind, and I believe that Black is at the bottom 
of it all. For some reason he wants to get me out of the way, 
but he has mistaken his man. I am going back to the pine 


Bomr JEAK. 


woods just as quickly as I can get there, if I perish in the 
attempt.” 

* * * 3k ♦ 

It was a fearful night ; a night of storm and tempest ; the 
very demons of destruction seemed to stalk abroad. The rain 
came down in blinding sheets ; the thunder rolled like crashing 
artillery ; athwart the inky blackness of the sky the lightning 
shot in broad, sulphurous flashes, revealing for a moment the 
dense forest, the swollen river dragging itself sullenly along ; 
while over all the wind swept howling through the branches of 
the pine trees like the wail of a lost soul. The sheets of light- 
ning which dashed across the heavens with their lurid flashes 
disclosed a horseman making his way with difficulty through 
the night and tempest ; now pausing an instant, overcome by 
the ferocity of the warring elements, and shrinking down in his 
saddle in the darkness, as though hoping to avoid destruction ; 
or, perchance, with that instinct which draws one nearer a liv- 
ing creature in such a strait, even though an unreasoning brute. 

“ My God !” broke from the lips of the traveler at last, as a 
gust of wind, fiercer than usual, dashed by him, tearing his hat, 
rain-soaked though it was, from his head, and nearly knocking 
him from his saddle. “ Mercy ! what a witch’s saturnalia it is, 
to be sure ! Must I perish out here alone in this frightful storm 
and darkness ? And I a stranger in these fearful woods. I have 
lost my road, I know that, and I know not which way to turn. 
I am afraid of riding my horse into the river, or dashing my 
brains out against a giant tree. Oh, Heaven, for a single ray 
of light! Hal what’s that? Can it be a light? — a shelter, 
perhaps !” 

He drew rein as he spoke before a dark object which loomed 
up before him — a darker patch on the midnight gloom. Yes ; 
one tiny, dull, red ray of light pierced the Tartarean darkness 
like a glaring eye, while upon his ear fell the faint and indis- 
tinct murmur of voices. 


BOKKT JEAK. 


A house, I verily believe !" he exclaimed, Joyfully. “ Hal- 
loa !” he shouted, wildly, “halloa ! I say !” 

Instantly the light faded, and perfect silence reigned. It was 
like an enchanted house in a fairy tale. But Philip Randall — 
for it was he — was not the man to be vanquished and overcome 
by small obstacles. Dismounting from his horse, he led him 
by the bridle onward through the horrible darkness ; on, on, 
he stumbled against something at last. An exclamation of sur- 
prise broke from his lips, as, putting forth his hand, he discov- 
ered it was a door-step. Passing his hand along the side of the 
building, he was enabled at length to find the door, and pro- 
ceeded to execute a series of knocks which made the echoes 
ring. 

“ Surly devils I” he muttered, grimly, “ to shut a traveler out 
in this storm !” 

For a long time he rapped, eliciting no response, but within 
the fierce growling of dogs was distinctly audible, and he knew 
that the house was occupied. But at last, since ‘ ‘ Patience has 
its sure reward,” his, too, was rewarded. The door opened 
slightly, and a man's gruff voice demanded : 

‘ ‘ Who’s there ?” 

“Well, you've been a long time answering,” retorted Philip, 
not in the best of humor. “ Is it the fashion in this country to 
refuse a man admittance in a duse of a gale like this ?” 

“Don’t know nothin’ 'bout no fashions,” responded the man 
inside, surlily. “ Do you want to come in, or don’t ye? I'm 
old Bill Corney, and I’ve kept this here place — the Red Tavern, 
it’s called — for four-and-twenty years, come and gone.” 

“Ah!” cried Philip, eagerly pushing his way inside as he 
spoke, ‘ ‘ a country tavern, eh ? Then why on earth don’t you 
invite me in, and give me some supper and a bed, and have my 
horse attended to? You’ll lose nothing by it, old man, I 
promise you.” 

The old man led the way without another word, and Philip, 
overjoyed at the prospect of a roof over his head, followed his 


Bomr JEAK. 


host inside. It was a great dark room, lighted by a single tal- 
low candle, which threw a little patch of red light in the center, 
and left the rest of the apartment in eerie shadows. The old 
man hastened to the huge fire-place and tossed a great light- 
wood kot upon the little heap of coals that smoldered there. 
Instantly a broad, bright light flashed up, and in a moment the 
room wus brilliantly illuminated. 

“Will you have my horse attended to.'*” inquired Philip. 
“Can you have him well rubbed down, and give him a good 
feed.?” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Mr. Corney, “I can, and what’s more, 
I will.” 

He threw open a door at the end of the room as he spoke. 

“Here, you, Sam,” he shouted, “come here.” 

And when the half-grown, long-limbed strippling had ap- 
peared, Philip turned and examined his host attentively. Not at 
all prepossessing, surely ! He was tall and thin to gauntness, with 
a round bullet head, covered with a coarse shock of red hair ; 
his squint eyes were of a greenish color, and his broad mouth 
was full of great yellow teeth, like fangs. Philip was con- 
strained to admit that he had never beheld a more evil 
countenance. 

But he was too glad of a shelter for the night to cavil at so 
small a matter as his host’s tout ensemble. 

“ I’ll go and see about your supper now,” announced Mr. 
Corney, as he dispatched Sam to the stables. 

He left the room as he spoke, and Philip was alone. He 
drew nearer the glowing fire, vaguely conscious that he was 
comfortable, and safely housed, “and for all these things 
devoutly thankful.” 

All at once he heard a voice close behind him — a voice which 
whispered in his ear, and made him start as though he had been 
shot. Yet he knew that there was nobody, not a living soul, in 
the room save himself. 

“Philip Randall!” said the voice, and its accents, though 


BONNY JEAN 


23 


low, were stern and menacing, *‘you have walked straight into 
the lion's jaws, and you are caught in a trap. Be warned, for 
I tell you this is a house of fearful secrets, and you will never 
leave it alive I” 


CHAPTER IV. 

PERIL. 

Philip sprang to his feet, with a wildly beating heart, as the 
strange words, in that low, ghostly voice, fell upon his ear. He 
glanced about him cautiously. The great, bare room, with its 
low ceiling — guiltless of plaster — crossed by dark, smcke-grimed 
rafters overhead, and lighted by the leaping, blazing “light- 
wood " in the huge fire-place, met his gaze. A spindle-legged 
table, upon which lay a pack of greasy cards, a long, low 
wooden settle, a dozen chairs, with cowhide seats in various 
stages of decay, were all upon which fell his eager gaze. Half- 
paralyzed with horror and surprise, Philip stood — his eyes fas- 
tened upon the door through which his host had disappeared. 
Suddenly it opened, and Mr. Corney was once more visible. 

“Supper’s ready, sir,” he answered, with a grim attempt at a 
smile, which only revealed more decidedly his natural hideous- 
ness — “this way, sir, if you please !” 

Philip marked the sudden tone of servility, and wondered at 
the change in his host’s demeanor— wondered with an uneasy fore- 
boding of coming evil. But he was very tired and hungry ; the 
cheerful fire had dried his garments and revived his spirits ; so, 
thrusting one hand into the inner pocket, where his trusty re- 
volver was safely stored for possible contingencies, Philip fol- 
lowed Mr. Corney into the adjoining apartment. 

A second huge fire-place occupied nearly one whole side of 
this room, and a great oak log lay smoldering into glowing 
coals, rendering the room peculiarly cozy and comfortable. 
Before the fire a table had been laid for one person. There 


24 


BONNY JEAN 


was a dearth of table-cloth, while napkins were an unknown 
luxury in that remote region ; china ware, also, was at a con- 
siderable discount — “like angels’ visits, few and far between” — 
yet the supper made up for all other deficiency. Trout from 
the sparkling Tangipahoa, a haunch of venison, roast duck, the 
inevitable corn dodger, roast yams, rice, and black colfee, con- 
stituted the bill of fare, and Philip, sitting down at; once, did 
it ample justice. Mr. Corney had slouched away from the 
room, but when Philip had concluded his repast, he returned, 
bringing a small waiter, upon which were two glasses. 

“Here, sir,” he began, that same horrible leer disfiguring 
his far from handsome features — “here is as good a Tom and 
Jerry as ever you’ll git in New Orleans, I reckon. I thought 
’twould do you good arter such a mighty bad wettin’ ; so I fixed 
hit myself, and, if you please, we’ll drink together. This here’s 
for you,” indicating one of the glasses with a dingy forefinger. 

Philip took the glass, and Mr. Corney placed the waiter, with 
the remaining glass, upon the table, and turned to poke the 
fire. That operation in the pine woods usually consists in a 
series of vigorous kicks at the back log with a pair of hob- 
nailed boots. While this process was going on, Philip sat 
glancing from one glass of liquor to the other, and a queer 
idea entered his brain and lodged there. Yielding to this 
curious impulse, he lifted his own glass, and, unnoticed by his 
host, whose back was turned, he quietly exchanged glasses. As 
soon as he had done this thing, Philip could have laughed at 
his own absurdity. But he drank the Tom and Jerry, while 
Mr. Corney imitated his example, draining the liquor at one 
draught, and smacking his lips with intense satisfaction. Then, 
sitting down before the fire, the old man proceeded leisurely to 
light his pipe. 

Mr. Corney made no attempt at conversation, and Philip sat 
there, to all intents and purposes, alone; and, at last, turning 
toward his host, he saw that he was fast asleep — not a natural, 
easy slumber, but a heavy lethargy. 


BONNY JEAN 


25 


Philip stood for a moment gazing upon the unconscious 
man. It was not the effects of the liquor that he had imbibed ; 
Philip knew that old Corney had been perfectly sober, and the 
Tom and Jerry would surely not have so seriously affected this 
tough old pine woods veteran ; so Philip was forced to conclude 
at length that the liquor which had been intended for himself 
had been drugged. 

Foul play, then, was meant. First to stupefy his senses, then 
rob him, and probably put an end to his existence. He had a 
fine gold watch and a considerable sum of money upon his 
person ; his horse, which he had just purchased in New Orleans, 
was worth the two hundred dollars which he had paid for him ; 
there was, altogether, quite enough plunder to be gained by 
putting him out of the way, and every occurrence, as well as 
the strange warning words to which he had listened, pointed to 
something sinister and evil. Philip stood there beside the sleep- 
ing man and thought it all over. He was in a tight place, de- 
cidedly, for he was sure that the worst was meant. Sometimes 
God gives us warning, or premonition, of coming danger. When 
the skies are fair, and there is apparently nothing to fear. He, 
knowing what is coming into our lives, sends us certain warn- 
ing; but we often laugh at our own superstitious folly (so we 
term it), and disregard the presentments which are hung like 
danger signals across our pathway, and then we inevitably 
suffer. 

Philip began to see that he had made no mistake. But he 
must perforce remain in that dismal place until morning, and 
he must be on his guard. Carefully he drew his revolver from 
his pocket and examined its contents. . It was a six-shooter, 
and loaded to the muzzle. With a look of satisfaction on his 
face, Philip returned it to its hiding-place, just as the low mur- 
mur of voices fell upon his ears. He glanced toward old Cor- 
ney. The old man was sleeping as though his life depended 
on the soundness of his slumbers, and Philip ventured to move 
cautiously forward in the direction from whence the voices 


26 


BONNY JEAN. 


seemed to proceed. He discovered then that there was still 
another room, and through the keyhole in the door all sounds 
were distinctly audible. Philip paused and listened, scarcely 
daring to breathe. 

“Wonder if it’s knocked him over yet?” were the first words 
that floated to his ears. “A pretty stiff dose the old man 
put in.” 

“Where is old man Corney all this time?” inquired another 
voice ; and Philip Randall started as though he had received an 
electric shock, for ii was the voice of Gabriel Black! 

“Oh, he went in the room to do the agreeable,” cried the 
other ; “he’ll stay there while the young feller’s gettin’ asleep ; 
sort o’ ‘rock me to sleep’ motion, you know. Reckon old 
Bill will tune up, and sing him a lullaby !” 

A general laugh followed this sally, and Philip knew that 
there were probably half a dozen men in the other apartment ; 
truly the odds were fearfully against him. 

But Philip Randall came of a good stock. The Randalls had 
never been cowards ; from the time — more than a century ago — 
when old John Randall had held a fort with a pitiful handful of 
men, against a band of maddened savage Iroquois, to the present 
day, no cowardly action had tarnished their escutcheon ; and 
Philip, standing there in that den of thieves and cut-throats, 
reviewed his situation rapidly, with the brave determination to 
sell his life dearly and to “die game.” 

All at once an inspiration came to him. He went back to 
the fire, and sitting down, he pillowed his head on one arm, 
which rested on the table, and composed hfe features as though 
he were wrapped in slumber. Ten minutes passed. iThe warm 
fire began to make Philip drowsy, sure enough ; he felt himself 
really dozing at last, when suddenly the door leading from the 
other room opened noiselessly, and some one entered. There 
was a subdued chuckle of satisfaction as their eyes fell upon the 
apparently slumbering man ; and the next thing that Philip 
knew he was lifted in half a dozen strong arms, and borne from 


BONNT JEAN. 


27 


the room. Into still another apartment they carried him, and 
Philip began to suspect that he had stumbled upom an en- 
chanted palace, with no end of chambers, when he felt himself 
deposited carefully upon a bed. The men withdrew cautiously, 
the door closed after them, and Philip heard the key turn in the 
lock. He opened his eyes — darkness — profound and deep as 
Erebus — met his gaze. 

He passed his hands slowly ever the bedside — it was a narrow 
bed — and at that instant he heard, distinctly, a hollow groan. 
Terrified immeasurably, he sprang to his feet, and began to 
grope his way through the darkness. Another groan, and still 
another, and then a cold hand was laid upon his own, while 
that same strange, sepulchral voice which he had already heard 
once before that night whispered in his ear : 

“If you lie on that bed you will die. They mean 
murder I” 

Philips heart was beating wildly, with great, mad, tumultu- 
ous bounds ; you could hear it distinctly, there in the dreadful 
darkness. He groped about in the gloom, wildly hoping to 
find the creature — whatever or whoever it might be — that had 
breathed those warning words ; but his hand came in contact 
with the door of the room, and he paused there, holding the 
knob of the door in his grasp. All at once a strange rushing 
noise filled the air. Oh, if he only had a match, he would dis- 
cover what demoniac work was going on. 

He felt in all his pockets — yes, thank God ! there were two 
Never in all his life before had Philip Randall understood the 
value of so simple a thing as a common lucifer match. 

He drew them forth, and struck them carefully on the wall 
beside him. A blue flame arose, and flickered higher and 
higher ; by its faint light Philip took a hasty survey of his sur- 
roundings. There was absolutely no one present save himself; 
his ghostly visitor had vanished. The room was small and 
bare, with one window, contained no furniture save the 


28 


BONNY JEAN 


bed, and as his eyes fell upon that, his heart gave a sudden 
bound of horror, and stood still. 

The bed was made with a small, square canopy, or ‘‘tester,” 
over head, from which a musquito bar usually depends ; and as 
Philip gazed he saw that the canopy was being moved by ma- 
chinery in the roof of the house, and was slowly but surely de- 
scending, and had he remained in the bed he would have been 
almost instantly suffocated, and a dreadful death would have 
been his certain fate. 

Philip had read of such a horrible contrivance ; but now he 
saw it all — saw by the faint, flickering light of the matches 
which he held in his hand — now burning fainter and dimmer, 
and at last expiring altogether and leaving him in total dark- 
ness. He knew that the fiends who had attempted his life 
would wait until they believed the success of their crime to be 
certain — until the terrible agonies of so awful a dissolution 
would be over, and Philip, a crushed and distorted corpse, 
would lie there upon the bed under that death-dealing canopy ; 
and then they would lift its ponderous weight by means of the 
same machinery, and gather around to rob his body, like vul- 
tures around their prey. 

Oh ! was it not fearful ? What should he do } How could 
he ever escape from that den of iniquity.? Philip stood with 
both hands clasped, and stared straight before him through the 
darkness. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE NEXT STEP, 

“Steady, Flirt ! Easy, now — over we go !” 

The speaker was a young girl — a dark, piquant brunette, with 
saucy black eyes, crimson cheeks, and pouting lips. Her hair, 
of midnight blackness, hung in one long plait down her back, 
and was tied with a scarlet ribbon. Her riding-habit, of black 


BONNY JEAN. 


29 


cloth, fitted the petite form as though it had been molded to 
every curve of the dainty, elegant figure, and her black straw 
hat, shading the delicate face, was turned up on one side, with 
a couple of long, black ostrich plumes which swept over the 
graceful, sloping shoulders. 

The horse — Flirt, as it was called — was a slender-limbed, 
high-stepping creature, whose every movement betrayed its 
pedigree. Flirt had come of good old Kentucky blue-grass 
stock, and there was not her match in the whole pine woods. 

Horse and mistress were both perfection, and a pretty picture 
they made as they stood, the young lady laughing gayly, on the 
opposite side of the rail fence which they had just leaped, and 
which inclosed a large rice field. The girl stooped in the saddle 
and patted the arched neck of the horse approvingly. 

“Well done. Flirt!” she cried; “though I expect we will 
suffer for our temerity, for here we are, in Mr. John Averill’s 
rice field ; and, upon my word, yonder comes Mr. John Averill 
himself!” 

For a tall, slim figure was coming down the field with rapid 
strides — a young man in his shirt-sleeves, with gray nether gar- 
ments, and a broad-brimmed straw hat upon his close-cut brown 
hair ; a man with grave, dark eyes, and stern, determined fea- 
tures, and a heavy dark mustache. 

He lifted his hat as his eyes fell upon the intruder, and an 
amused smile chased away the frown of annoyance which had 
crossed his face at sight of a horse and rider within the sacred 
precincts of his rice field. 

“Good-evening, Miss Lee,” he began. “Are you not a little 
out of your road ?” 

“Lady Lee,” as she was called (her nam-e was Adelaide), 
blushed a trifle, then her saucy, willful nature reasserted itself. 

“No,” she returned; “your field brings me half a mile 
nearer home, so I thought Fd go through it. The path through 
the center is quite wide enough for Flirt and me,” 

John Averill smiled. 


30 


BONNY JEAN. 


“YouVe a cool way of doing things, Lady,” he remarked, 
dropping one brown hand upon the arched neck of Flirt as he 
spoke; “but since you are here, don’t you think that you may 
as well give me my answer? I have waited two whole weeks 
for some response; I’m tired of waiting, Lady. I’m not too 
patient a man, and I want to know — I must know, if you in- 
tend to be my wife?” 

Lady Lee’s dark head drooped, as though to repress a smile, 
and her luminous eyes flashed saucily. 

“Stand and deliver!” she cried, laughing a merry peal of 
laughter which would do one good to hear. “Behold the 
brigand at my horse’s head I Your money or your life !” 

“No, Lady.” 

John Averill transferred his hand from Flirt’s neck to the 
neatly gloved hand of her mistress, which lay upon the pom- 
mel of the saddle. 

“It is your heart ” \\q continued, “that I besiege and de- 
mand — ^yes, demand r he repeated, quickly, as a flush of anger 
crossed Lady’s dark face. “You have surely given me warrant 
for. believing that I should eventually win you. I have waited 
for my answer now longer than most men would have waited ; 
I am no patient Jacob, to wait uncomplainingly on any woman’s 
caprices. I have known you so long, Lady, and have loved 
you so long, that I want my answer. Will you be my wife. 
Lady Lee? Because I intend to marry you whether or no !” 

“Wait until the next time I see you,” laughed the irrepress- 
ible Lady, flicking a fly from Flirt’s ears with her little riding- 
whip. “I’ve decided to leap the rails again, and not go 
through your rice field, after all. You might sue me for dam- 
ages, you know.” 

She drew her bridle-rein as she spoke, and Flirt dropped 
down upon her haunches ; Lady touched her lightly with the 
whip-lash, and they were over the fence in a twinkling, and 
standing in the green, shady road on the other side. 

“ Good-by, Mr. Averill I” she cried, executing a military salute 


BONNY JEAN 


31 


with graceful precision ; and, with a low chirrup to Flirt, the 
little witch was off like the wind. 

The young man followed her with his eyes as long as she was 
visible ; then he removed his hat and passed one hand over his 
heated brow, his eyes twinkling with amusement. 

“She drives me wild!’' he ejaculated. “Capricious little 
thing ! But she will be my wife — I know it — I swear it ! — just 
as sure as yonder sun is in the sky above me ! It’s worth wait- 
ing for. By Jove 1 who’s that?” 

For two horses had come tearing through the woods just at 
the edge of the rice field. It was Mrs. Conway and Jean. They 
reined in their horses, and the young planter came forward to 
meet the ladies. 

He knew the Conways well, yet the recent sad occurrences at 
the timber camp had not yet reached his ears. Living several 
miles distant, the roads half the time impassable, this was not 
at all strange. So they repeated their sad story, and that they 
intended to seek present shelter at Mrs. Lee’s. 

“The best step you could take !” cried John Averill, cordially. 
“They will assist you, I am sure. Miss Adelaide passed here 
a few moments ago, bound for home.” 

They whipped up their horses, and hastened on, hoping to 
overtake her. 

Hardly had the two ladies disappeared from sight, when a 
negro man crept out from a thicket of blackberry bushes on the 
roadside, and approaching young Averill, began to speak in a 
low, cautious tone. 

The young man listened eagerly, his cheek paling, and a 
strange light leaping into his handsome dark eyes. 

When the negro had finished what he had to tell, Averill 
leaped the rail fence at a single bound, and hastened away to 
the long, low, white house on the river-bank, which was his 
home, and where he was wont to announce that he “kept 
bachelor’s hall.” Entering the house, he hurriedly changed his 
clothing, and mounting a horse which the negro had hastily 


32 


BOKXr JEAN. 


saddled, he rode away as though life and death depended on his 
speed. 

Jjc 5|e Jk 

In the meantime, Jean and her mother had reached Mrs. 
Lee’s hospitable house — large, roomy, and comfortable, where 
the old man lived with his wife and his only child, Adelaide. 

Lady and Jean Conway had long been dear friends, and all 
the gayety faded from the girl’s dark face as she listened to 
Jean’s sad story. When it was finished, she wound her arms 
about Jean’s neck, and their tears fell together. 

*‘Dear Jean,” whispered Lady, softly, ‘‘you shall get 
out of this villain’s power. If once you can reach New 
Orleans in safety, you can start for the North, and then you will 
be safe, and can decide what step to take to free you perma- 
nently from his clutches. That Gabriel Black — I’ve always 
hated the wretch ! — must have influenced your father in some 
dreadful way. I’m sure there has been a frightful mistake, and 
now — but, poor Jean ! it is too late !” 

“Too late!” repeated Jean, sadly. “But, Lady, you will 
keep us here to-night, and in the morning we will go on — out 
to the station. Fortunately, I have enough to carry us to New 
Orleans ; and once there, I have friends to whom to appeal for 
advice and assistance.” 

That very night it began to rain ; the same fearful storm, in 
which poor Philip had come to grief, devastated the country. 
The rain fell in blinding sheets, swelling the river fearfully, 
while the creeks and small streams, in which that region 
abounds, grew to huge affairs, and some of them were impassa- 
ble. It rained until the afternoon of the next day ; then it 
broke off, and the clouds began to disperse. The river was 
away over its banks ; but Jean and her mother, knowing that 
they must lose no time, determined to at least make the 
attempt, and to start on their journey at once. 

So, as soon as dinner was over, they bade the Lees a tearful 


BONNY JEAN 


33 


farewell, and rode away in the direction of the river, which they 
were obliged to cross. There were no bridges over the Tangi- 
pahoa. Usually a peaceful, pretty, winding stream, it was 
crossed by means of a primitive-looking flat-boat. 

With great difflculty they persuaded the negro ferryman to 
attempt the passage ; but the promise of a dollar from Mrs. 
Conway, and the earnest pleading of Jean, were not without 
effect ; so old Uncle Ned consented at last. They dismounted, 
and led their horses to the flat by the bridles, and the darkey 
pushed out from the shore. It was impossible to use the oars 
in that boiling, seething flood, which eddied and swirled around 
them; so Uncle Ned concluded to “pole” them across — a 
tedious operation at best, but, under the circumstances, almost 
superhuman efforts were required. Jean and her mother stood 
watching the scene around them with dismay, when suddenly 
Uncle Ned lost his balance and fell into the water. In his 
fright and demoralization, the pole dropped from his hands. 
The old fellow could not swim a stroke, but at length he suc- 
ceeded in scrambling back upon the flat, to find with horror 
that the pole lay floating in the water some twenty feet away, 
and the flat was turning round and round in dizzy eddies, bob- 
bing up and down like a cork from the force of the current. 
They must depend on the oars, then. Uncle Ned seized them 
in wild desperation, and went to work with such zeal, that one 
of the frail things suddenly snapped in twain. 

With a low cry of horror the two women stood, their faces 
pale as death, while the flat, at the mercy of wind and waves, 
floated swiftly down stream. 


34 


BONNY JEAN, 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE VIGILANTES. 

For some time Philip stood half stunned with horror ; then a 
flash of lightning streamed through the room, and lit up 
the darkness. The storm, which had lulled, was about to 
break out afresh, then ! Well, no matter, so long as the light- 
ning would serve to show him where he was; and that the 
streak — blue and sulphurous — had reminded him of the exist- 
ence of the window in the room. 

With a heart beating wildly with hope — that hope which dies 
so hard in the breast of the young — Philip made his way to the 
window and slowly raised the sash. It seemed that the villains 
had been so certain of their victim that they had not thought it 
necessary to secure the window. Philip paused an instant to 
collect his thoughs. Footsteps outside the door and voices fell 
upon his ear; they were coming to rob their prey, and bear the 
body away for burial. He felt for his revolver ; it was safe. 
Then he crept softly out and over the window-sill. A trifling 
leap and he was down upon the ground, but only to find him- 
self caught by a pair of strong hands. 

“Ten thousand devils!’' ejaculated a man's voice, in a low 
tone ; “he could never have escaped 1” 

Without a second's pause, Philip wrenched his right hand 
free and quickly drew his revolver. At that short range he 
ought to have killed his man ; but the darkness was intense, 
and his antagonist, perhaps divining Philip's intention, suddenly 
sprang backward as Philip fired at random. 

A wild yell of pain rent the air, and Philip fled away through 
the darkness and gloom like a madman. A providential flash 
of lightning showed him the stable a few rods distant. He 


BONNY JEAN. 


35 


dashed away in its direction, and still relying upon the lightning 
to guide him, he managed to enter and secure his horse with- 
out any obstacle intervening to prevent. In a few moments 
more he had sprung upon the horse, and dashed olf through 
the darkness — he knew not whither. But better the trackless 
forest, in the storm and darkness, than to be left to the mercies 
of those fiends in human guise. He could hear them cursing 
and raving, knew that they were searching for him who had so 
miraculously escaped them ; but Philip determined to elude 
them if possible; if not, he would sell his life dearly. And so 
he pushed onward, not knowing whither. 

The clatter of horses’ feet behind him told him at length 
that he was indeed pursued. He concluded to hide himself 
from observation, if possible, and perhaps they would pass him 
by unnoticed. 

Fortunately, there was a group of huge oaks near, growing 
so close together as to form quite a barrier ; he found his way 
behind them, and checking his horse, sat as quiet as the dead. 

On came his pursuers, armed, and with lighted lanterns. The 
roads were so full of mud and water that the foot-prints of 
Philip’s horse were not discernible, and to track him by that 
means was, therefore, out of the question. Philip sat bolt up- 
right in the saddle, scarcely venturing to breathe; the lights 
flashed past him— they were gone! 

He determined to wait there until the morning, then per- 
chance he could find his way and finish his journey. For he 
still determined to go back to the timber camp— back to Jean ; 
and although he perished in the attempt, as he had said, his 
mind was made up to go on. 

Morning dawned at last, lowering, but not raining, and 
Philip emerged from his hiding-place and rode on over the 
road— little more than a bridle-path. He found himself in a 
portion of the country with which he was totally unacquainted, 
and not a trace of a human being or a habitation was in sight. 
He rode along leisurely, still meeting no one ; the day grew on, 


36 


BONNY JEAN. 


and finally the lengthening shadows began to warn him that 
another night would soon come down. What should he do? 
He was half famished and beginning to grow weak. He could 
not imagine where he was, or in what direction to look for the 
timber camp. If he could only reach the river he felt confident 
of finding his way; the camp was down stream, and perhaps he 
might succeed in reaching there, after all. 

With this hope he struck out in a fresh direction. On he 
traveled, through mud and water ; splashed with mold and 
great blotches of mother earth ; but still on he pressed, deter- 
mined not to give up. Toward sunset he came upon a cabin 
standing in the midst of a dense thicket of pines. To all ap- 
pearance it was uninhabited ; there was no smoke coming from 
its chimney, and no visible sign of life about. He decided to 
remain here for the night ; it would be a shelter, at least. So 
he dismounted, and tying his horse in such a manner that he 
was at liberty to graze, Philip passed around the cabin to find 
an entrance. A few paces farther and he paused in surprise at 
the sound of voices within. The place was occupied, then, 
after all. Something — some cadence in one of the voices — 
struck Philip as unpleasantly familiar ; involuntarily he drew 
near the cabin, which was of rough logs, and applied his 
eye to an aperture. 

This was what he saw : A dozen men — rough, outlaw-looking 
fellows — were sitting and standing in various attitudes around 
the room ; while in their midst — his ugly face pale and hag- 
gard, and one arm bandaged— stood Gabriel Black. 

“Ha!" thought Philip, smiling in spite of his danger, 
“it was Black that I hit, then. Well, so much the better; 
for I know beyond a doubt now that that man is my bitter, 
implacable enemy.” 

He bent his head to listen, not daring to breathe scarcely, 
while Gabriel Black spoke : 

“Boys,” he was saying, with an air of command, “you 
have sworn to stand by me, have you not ?" 


BONNY JEAN 


37 


“We have, captain,” responded a rough-looking customer, 
“We swore to stand by each other when this here band 
was first organized, and weVe done that thing so far.” 

“Very well; I know that you have. Then let me advise 
you of the next step to take. We have made our name 
a terror throughout the entire South. Every one has heard 
of the vigilantes, and they have learned to tremble at our 
power. We work in silence and secrecy — our watchword 
‘ Vendetta, ’ our motto ‘ Booty and Beauty and in the dark- 
ness of night we track our victim down to his certain de- 
struction. And should one of us break his fearful oath, 
or in any way prove faithless to his trust, he is speedily 
punished. You all know the penalty for offense? ' 

Death r returned the men, unanimously. 

Gabriel Black smiled grimly. 

“Ay, death r he hissed, venomously; “and the first one 
of you who deserves it will get all he deserves. And now, 
since we are sworn to help each other, and our mission is 
to aid the brotherhood, to the exclusion of all other con- 
siderations, I wish you to help me in the pursuit of the two 
women, Mrs. Conway and her daughter. Bonny Jean, who, 
you know, is my wife.” 

As the words passed the lips of the villain, Philip Randall 
uttered an involuntary exclamation of horror and amaze- 
ment. Instantly Gabriel Black strode forward, opened the 
door of the cabin, and the two stood face to face. A 
change came over Black's visage. 

“You sneaking devil!” he hissed, with savage vindictive- 
ness, “I have you at last! Comrades,” he turned to the 
others, who had followed him out of the cabin, “this man 
is a spy ! What is the penalty for such a transgression ?” 

“Death !” cried the vigilantes, flocking around. 


38 


BONNY JEAN, 


CHAPTER VII. 

STRUNG UP.^' 

For a moment Philip Randall stood erect and fearless before 
the sinister gaze of Gabriel Black. The villain’s snaky eyes 
were bent upon the young man’s handsome face with a look of 
unutterable hatred. He drew nearer, and dropped one hand 
upon Philip’s shoulder. 

“Hands off!” cried Philip, contemptuously; “don’t dare 
to touch me, Gabriel Black. I’d sooner encounter any other 
reptile that lives than you !” 

Black’s yellow face flushed angrily. 

“ Now,” continued Philip, quietly, “I have a question to 
ask you, and I demand an answer. What did you mean just 
now when you asserted that Jean Conway is your wife ?” 

A glare of triumph lighted up the villain’s face. 

“Because she tsT he answered, doggedly. “ Do you doubt 
it? If so, read that.” 

He flourished the marriage certificate before Philip’s face. 
He saw at once the import of the document, and grew deadly 
pale. 

“How do I know but that this is a forgery?” he asked, 
quietly. “I do not trust such creatures as you, Gabriel Black, 
now that I have found out your real character. ” 

Black laughed derisively. 

“Don’t, eh? he cried. “Well, look at that, then.” 

He unfolded a second paper, and, keeping his grasp tight 
upon it, allowed Philip to glance it over. It was the fatal con- 
tract signed by David Conway upon his death-bed. Philip 
trembled like a leaf as he realized the truth. 

“ Black,” he said, striving hard to be calm, “ I believe that 
there is some deception and fraud here. Mr. Conway, on his 


BONNY JEAN. 


39 


death-bed, told me— gave me — ” he hesitated, and then 
plunged on desperately — “he promised Jean to me/' 

You lief* 

Philip sprang forward and caught the ruffian by the throat. 

“You’ll not repeat that, Gabriel Black/' he groaned in 
desperation, “ or I’ll have your worthless life !” 

“Wait!” panted the other — Philip’s hand involuntarily re- 
laxed his grasp upon his thrpat — “ wait until I tell you. Jean 
loves me, or, of course, she would not have married me. I 
could not force her to become my wife. Such a marriage would 
be illegal.” 

Philip saw that there was reason in his words, and released 
his gasping victim. Once free, Gabriel Black drew himself up, 
and continued : 

“She is my wife ; but her mother has instigated Jean to ac- 
company her to New Orleans, and I do not intend that they 
shall go. Therefore I propose to follow, and put an end to 
their foolish journey. My wife must obey me.” 

Philip’s brow grew dark with anger, yet pity for the unfor- 
tunate girl rushed over his heart like a flood. 

Black still stood before him, and the other vigilantes gathered 
around, waiting for their captain’s commands. 

They did not have to wait long. 

“You are in power now, Mr. Randall,” said Black, at 
length, “and I intend to give you your just deserts. Men 1” — 
he turned to the group of dark -faced outlaws — “ this man is a 
spy upon our actions ; you know the penalty ?” 

Death r hissed the men, as in one voice. 

“ Death it shall be 1” responded Black, savagely ; “and the 
best way to settle all controversy. Here are pine trees enough 
and to spare. String him up, men, and have done with it.” 

They closed around their prisoner in an instant. Philip 
drew his revolver quickly, and pointed it straight at the heart 
of Gabriel Black. 

“One step nearer,” he cried, in a clear, ringing, defiant 


40 


BONNY JEAN 


voice, *^and I will shoot you through the heart! You lying 
villain, you shall die a dog's death !" 

For a moment Black did pause, awed by the white, resolute 
face of the young man, and the determined glitter of his dark, 
handsome eyes ; then a sardonic smile crept over his saturnine 
features, and he raised one hand commandingly. 

Disarm him, vigilantes 1" he shouted ; “knock that pistol 
from his hand and string him up 1 There are ropes in the 
cabin. ” 

Still Philip stood alone in the midst of that malignant, scowl- 
ing group. 

“Dare to touch me," he said, calmly, “and the man who 
attempts it will get this !" 

He pointed his weapon at the crowd ; but one of the men, 
unnoticed, slipped up behind him, and with a well-directed 
blow from behind dashed the revolver from his hand. Then 
they sprang upon him, and while one hastily brought the ropes 
from the cabin the others held him firmly, and ere many min- 
utes Philip was securely bound. He faced them resolutely. 

“ Dogs I" he cried, “you have made a wonderful conquest ; 
ten to one — a brave deed ! I congratulate you.” 

Something like shame touched the hearts of the men ; they 
wavered and drew back, but their captain motioned them on. 

“Select a tree," he commanded, with fiendish joy at the 
prospect of being forever rid of his hated rival; “and make 
haste about it, too ; I haven't time to linger here long, and I 
want to see the end of this business.” 

They bore Philip, bound hand and foot, to where a huge 
pine tree waved its arms ^loft, one immense branch standing 
out like a skeleton arm, and upon this they fastened the rope 
securely and made a slip-noose. Gabriel Black could scarcely 
contain himself, so intense was his satisfaction at the prospect. 
This was more than he dared to hope for or dream of — that 
Philip should be removed from his path, and he himself (for 
Black was an arrant coward) would not be held responsible, 


BONNY JEAN. 


41 


since it would be deemed the act of the famous vigilantes, the 
secret band of desperadoes whose fearful deeds had long caused 
the hearts of the people to thrill with horror and alarm. More 
than one dead body had been discovered ere now dangling from 
a giant tree, blackened, distorted, and cold in death ; the horri- 
ble buzzards crowding around for their awful feast And upon 
each body the one word “vigilantes” would be found, in great, 
black letters, staring the passer-by in the face. 

They reached the foot of the tree upon which they proposed 
carrying out their fearful intention, and were about to com- 
mence operations, when suddenly from a thicket of pines and 
scrnb oaks near by, a hollow, sepulchral voice was heard. 

“Gabriel Black !” 

The villain started as though he had been struck, and turned 
deadly pale. 

“Who’s there.?” he cried, half fearfully. 

* ‘ Gabriel Black, ” the voice repeated, ‘ ‘ beware /” 

He laughed uneasily. 

“Some fool is trying to frighten me,” he cried ; “it will not 
be well if I discover his identity !” 

“Gabriel Black 1” repeated the voice for the third time, “be- 
ware ! The day of retribution is drawing nigh !” 

“String him up !” shouted Black, wildly, “string him up 1 
I’ll see Phil Randall hanged if I give my own life to do it !” 

Obedient to the summons, the vigilantes surrounded the 
tree, and all hands made ready to carry out their murderous 
design. 

The young man was pale and quiet ; he saw that death was 
very near him, but he did not flinch. His hated enemy should 
not have the satisfaction of seeing a trace of fear in Philip Ran- 
dall ; he would go to his death as a brave man should. 

Slowly they drew him up, while some one rolled an empty 
barrel from the old cabin and placed it beneath the feet of the 
unfortunate man. 

Raised to that height, Philip could easily discern the sur- » 


42 


BONNF JEAN. 


Founding country, and he saw, with intense agony, that the 
river was not far off ; it was within range of his vision, and, had 
his feet been guided thither, he might have been on the road to 
the timber camp. Once there, he would find out all about 
Jean, and know the worst. 

At length one of the vigilantes stepped upon the barrel to 
adjust the noose about Philip s neck. As he did so, he hap- 
pened to glance toward the river. A change passed over his 
countenance ; he stopped in his work, and sprang to the ground. 
Touching Gabriel Black on the shoulder, he led him apart from 
the others. 

“ My God !” he ejaculated, in a low tone. ‘‘Look ! See — 
out upon the river a flat is drifting down, and if it isn’t Jean 
Conway and her mother on board Pm a Frenchman — that’s all ! 
Captain, if you want your wife, she’s on there!” 

Black glanced in the direction indicated, and his keen eyes 
took in the situation at once. 

“You’re right, Dunnington,” he said, briefly, “and we must 
make haste —all of us, or it may be too late. This little busi- 
ness here can wait till our return.” 

He started off in the direction of the river, followed by the 
whole desperate crew, leaving their prisoner still bound, the 
noose about his neck. 

Hardly were they gone when Philip felt something touch the 
rope. Nobody was there; but, as he gazed, a hand, white, 
dimpled, and beautiful — evidently the hand of a woman — 
emerged from the pine thicket, and the sharp, keen blade of a 
knife cleft the rope that bound him. In a moment he was free, 
and — never dreaming that Jean was near him — he sprang upon 
the back of his horse, and was out of sight in a moment. 


BONNY JEAN. 


43 


CHAPTER VIII. 

HUNTED DOWN. 

Down the river — swollen, and turbid, and angry — came the 
frail craft, with the three frightened human beings, and the 
horses, half frightened with terror, their eyes and nostrils dilated 
wildly, and pawing the flat-boat with their feet, as if they would 
stamp it into fragments. On came the flat. Now it whirled 
around and around in dizzy eddies, now they were in immediate 
danger of coming, with all the force of which it was capable, 
against some giant tree ; for the river had spread out and 
widened until it was over the land, and the swift current bore 
the flat-boat hither and thither. The wind had arisen, sending 
the flat in and out between the bushes ; now sweeping entirely 
over some clump of weeds, whose heads were above water; 
anon, darting on with a rush, in danger of overturning. 

All at once Jean raised her eyes, and a look of horror swept 
away the pallor which their peril had imprinted on her features. 
She caught her mother’s arm. 

‘ ‘ Mother, ” she gasped, ‘ ‘ God has forsaken us ! See ! there 
stands Gabriel Black 1” 

Mrs. Conway turned her head ; sure enough, upon the river- 
bank stood the villain who was bent upon their destruction, 
while at his side were the scowling, bearded faces of the vigi- 
lantes. But how could he reach them ? He had no boat, and 
the flat was nearly in the middle of the stream, sometimes di- 
verging a little from the center. 

“My God!” moaned Mrs. Conway, frantically, “we are 
lost I for he will find some way to reach us, Jean ! He will 
never rest now until he has us in his power.” 

Even as she spoke, Gabriel Black Srew his rifle, and raising 
it to his shoulder, deliberately fired. He had no intention of 


44 


BONNY JEAN. 


harming Jean or her mother ; but something entirely different 
instigated his movements. Just as he had anticipated, the 
report of the rifle startled the horses upon the flat. With a 
frantic bound they leaped wildly overboard. The flat careened 
like a crazy thing ; the impetus given it by the horses’ leap 
nearly overturned it, and, in another moment, Jean and her 
mother were struggling in the water. 

Like most Southern women reared in the country, the two 
could swim very well, and after the first shock was over, they 
struck out boldly for the shore ; but to Gabriel Black’s intense 
chagrin, they turned their faces to the opposite side. “Better 
to drown than to fall into his hands,” Jean said. 

On they swam. The swift current tossed them about ; they 
battled energetically with the wild, rushing waters ; one moment 
they could see no escape — they were confident they must die ; 
but the next instant Jean struck out bravely for the shore again, 
with a fervent “We s/ia/I be saved” trembling on her lips. 
On — on ; God surely guided them, for past the eddies they 
went safely over the whirling waves, which hid deep, treacherous 
holes, and on — on — they are nearing the shore, Jean in ad- 
vance. She turns to see that her mother is safe. Yes ! Mrs. 
Conway, though pale and terrified, is swimming onward, almost 
at the side of her intrepid daughter. 

“Cheer up, mother dear!” cries the clear, girlish voice; 
“we will outwit them yet.” 

On — on ; thank God, they are close to the bank now, and 
clutching at the weeds and shrubbery, which grow dense and 
rank to the water’s edge, the two succeeded in pulling them- 
selves to shore. One moment they stand, all dripping with 
water, and cast a look of defiance to the other side, where their 
hated pursuer stands, pallid and vengeful, glaring after them ; 
then they turn away to the swamp near by, and vanish in its 
depths. 

Strange good fortune! — the horses, too, have swam in the 
same direction. Jean and her mother have not gone very far 


BONNY JEAN 


45 


when they hear the clatter of hoofs behind them, a loud whinny 
of delight, and the two sagacious creatures have overtaken 
them. Dripping with water, the saddles disarranged and 
soaked, yet the horses were, indeed, a welcome sight to the 
refugees, and it took but a moment to mount them and ride 
away. 

In the meantime, the old negro ferryman had managed, after 
many ineffectual attempts, to scramble upon the flat-boat, and 
crouched there — a comical, but piteous spectacle. 

Gabriel Black proceeded to cut down a pine sapling, and 
having removed the bark, he was in possession at last of a tol- 
erable steering pole. Tossing off his coat, he sprang into the 
water, and grasping the pole closely, swam for the flat, which 
was really but a few rods away. 

Once on board. Black succeeded in poling the craft across 
the stream, and tying it to an overhanging bough, he sprang on 
shore, found the path which the two women had taken, and 
dashed away on their track. 

Jean and her mother traveled on at a rapid pace. They could 
reach New Orleans from a distant village on that side of the 
river, but by steamboat only ; hence their reason for crossing 
the river to the railroad station. But they must “make a virtue 
of necessity and so, trying hard to feel hopeful and keep up 
their courage, they hurried their horses onward, never dreaming 
that the villain from whom they were flying was even then upon 
their track, determined to hunt them down as remorselessly as 
the sleuth-hound on the track of its victim. The time was 
drawing nigh when Gabriel Black’s love for Jean would turn 
into bitter hatred ; such affection is prone to such trans- 
formation. 

He made quick time on the track of the unfortunates, and, 
without stopping to rest, got over a long distance before the sun 
began to go down its golden ladder in the west. But at last 
the sun set, and Jean and her mother began to dread the com- 
ing twilight. The country through which they were passing 


46 


BONKY JEAir. 


was not familiar to them, and almost uninhabited; but they 
knew that they could not lose their way, for they must journey 
due east to reach the village where lay the steamboat landing. 

On they went. The sun was down now, and the gray shades 
of twilight began to creep slowly over all things. 

“ Mother,'' said Jean, anxiously, ‘'where shall we stay to- 
night ? What shall we do 

Her eyes fell upon a small cabin, a deserted shepherd hut. 
She rode around to the open door and glanced within. All was 
silent. There were no signs of life. Evidently the shepherd 
had driven his flock to some other pasture. They decided to 
spend the night in this place. Fortunately it was warm, and 
the bright sun’s rays had long ago dried their drenched gar- 
ments. They alighted, and, taking the saddles from their 
horses, they fastened them to a neighboring tree, leaving them 
room to graze, and then they entered the hut. It contained 
one room without windows. There was no lock to the door, 
only a huge wooden socket, through which a bar of wood had 
been passed to serve the purpose of a bolt. They seated them- 
selves upon a rude bench which stood near the mud fire-place, 
their arms about each other, when Jean glanced up, and saw 
the ugly face of Gabriel Black peering in at the door, which 
had been left open to admit the air. With a cry of horror, 
Jean sprang to her feet, and dashed the door to in his face ; but, 
alas ! there was no bolt, and only that frail plank intervened 
between the two women and their feared and hated enemy. He 
laughed aloud in derision, and pushed the door as though to 
open it. The two women exerted all their strength to resist. 
At that instant Mrs. Conway’s eyes fell upon a piece cf wood 
on the opposite side of the room, which might serve the pur- 
pose of a bolt. She darted after it, but, alas ! the wood was 
decayed, and broke at Mrs. Conway’s touch. Gabriel Black 
shook the door wildly. It began to give way. There was no 
help for it. Jean thrust one arm through the huge socket, de- 
termined to keep the villain at bay, if it cost her her life I 


BONNY JEAN. 


47 


CHAPTER IX. 

HAUNTED. 

** I want my wife !” 

It was the voice of Gabriel Black. All the softness and 
silkiness had gone out of it now, and it was harsh and com- 
manding. 

‘ ‘ Gabriel Blacky beware r 

The ghostly, sepulchral voice seemed to proceed from the 
forest near. 

Black started, and grew deathly pale, and trembled so vio- 
lently that he could scarcely stand. 

It was the same voice that he had heard before in the pine 
woods, on the opposite side of the river. He pushed back his 
damp hair from his cold brow. 

^‘I begin to feel that I am haunted,” he muttered, wildly. 
*‘This is not the first time that I have heard that voice. Can 
it be ” 

He hesitated, and said no more, but his face grew slowly 
paler, his eyes were dilated with horror, and he looked like a 
man bereft of sense and reason. 

"‘Go back, Gabriel Black !” cried the voice again. “Dare 
to harm one hair of that poor girl’s head, and you will be 
punished !” 

Black was very superstitious, and believed firmly in the su- 
pernatural. He sank upon the ground outside the door of the 
hut, and cowered there. But the devils which raged within his 
wicked heart were only quieted for a time, not silenced forever, 
and ere long the old mocking light came back to his black eyes, 
and he rose to his feet. 

“Let me in, Mrs. Conway.” he commanded. “I have 
something to propose to you— an arrangement which will end 
this contention, and bridge these difficulties.” 


48 


BONNY JEAN 


** There is no possibility of your doing that, Gabriel Black.” 
returned Mrs. Conway, contemptuously. ‘"We want nothing 
to do with you. All we ask at your hands is to go away and 
leave us to ourselves. Nothing- C 2 in alter this determination.” 

“Stay !” cried Gabriel Black, eagerly. “Suppose that I re- 
veal to you the hiding-place of a great fortune ! Ah ! you 
laugh at the very idea, perhaps, but never mind ; I know more 
than I shall tell, unless you promise that all shall be settled 
amicably. For I claim my wife. She is mine in the sight of 
the law. If you will consent, I will make you rich to the end 
of your days; and I will be kind to Jean, indeed I will.” 

“Leave us, Gabriel Black!” said Jean, haughtily, though 
her arm was paining her fearfully, and it seemed as though she 
could not remain in that position much longer. “ You waste 
words on us. Nothing in the world would ever induce us to 
treat you other than scornfully. To me you are the veriest 
monster that ever walked the earth. ” 

“ You’ll be sorry for that, my lady 1” cried the brute, throw- 
ing the weight of his body upon the door. 

“God!” cried Mrs. Conway, springing forward and seiz- 
ing her fainting child in her arms. 

The poor girl’s right arm hung crushed and mangled at her 
side. The mother turned then and faced the villain who had 
done this dastardly deed. 

“Out of my sight,” she panted, “or I will choke the life 
from you !” 

She laid the unconscious Jean upon the bench, and spring- 
ing upon Black, she twisted her fingers about his throat, until 
he fairly gasped for mercy. For the second time that day the 
wretch was treated to a foretaste of what he so richly deserved ; 
but Mrs. Conway’s frail grasp relaxed. 

The villain, almost purple in the face, sprang forward, and 
seizing the unconscious girl, bore her from the hut, placing her 
across one of the horses. He waited to saddle the other horses, 
then he ordered Mrs. Conway to mount. 


BONNY JEAN 


40 


Where are you going to drag us?” demanded the poor 
woman, ‘-in the night and in darkness?” 

^‘That is my concern, madam!” he responded, harshly. 
“If you wish to accompany your daughter you may do so; 
otherwise, you may go your own way, and I will take my wife 
where I choose 1” 

Poor Mrs. Conway sprang upon the back of the other horse, 
and Black mounted the one upon which he had placed Jean, 
holding her carefully before him. 

Turning the horses’ heads in an opposite direction, he started 
off, and Mrs. Conway followed. On they went for miles. It 
was nearly midnight when, half dead with fatigue, Mrs. Conway 
saw the dark shadow of a building loom up before them. 

Here Black halted, and bore Jean inside, the agonized 
mother following closely in his wake. It was the old Red 
Tavern, that fearful den of iniquity, from which Philip Randall 
had just escaped. 

sK ***** ♦ 

The next night, or rather at twilight, a man might have 
been seen emerging from the forest, just below Lee’s Landing, 
a spade upon his shoulder, his gait rapid. It was Gabriel 
Black. On he went, over the broad expanse of land where 
the ravages of the fire-fiend were plainly visible. The confla- 
gration had been extinguished, and the ground was burnt, 
and bare, and brown. Onward he came, occasionally glanc- 
ing around to make sure of the locality. At length he paused 
before a spot where five gum trees were growing in a circle. 
His eyes lighted up with a wild gleam. 

“The fire has not removed my marks, I see I” he exclaimed. 
“It was a fine stroke of policy, setting fire to the woods, and 
misled Mr. Philip beautifully. Ugh ! he’s dead and out of the 
way by this time. The boys went back to finish the job, while 
I crossed the river. But I’ll hear their report to-morrow, and 
go and have a look at the carcass. Three cheers for Gabriel 
Black 1 I’ll have the burieci treasure, or I’m mistaken.” 


50 


BONNY JEAN. 


He stuck his spade into the ground, and stepping close to 
the gum trees, examined the trunk of each attentively. Yes, 
there was one marked with a cross. He drew a quick breath 
of rapture, and his eyes flashed greedily. 

“Ah !” he cried, “ Tm on the right track 
He seized the spade, and began to dig in the ground at 
the foot of the tree that was marked with a cross. He had 
turned up two or three spadefuls of earth, when suddenly all 
grew dark before his eyes, he was in total gloom, while a voice 
hissed, rather than spoke, in his ear : 

“Gabriel Black! Dare to rob my innocent child, and you 
shall never know a moment's peace 1 I will hunt you down 
to your death, until you pray for the refuge of the grave ! 
You shall suffer, Gabriel Black, the punishment due to the 
dastard who robs the widow and orphan !” 

He felt a stinging blow upon the head ; his temples seemed 
bound in iron bands ; he fell to the ground, and the night 
and darkness covered him. 


CHAPTER X. 

ONE night's work. 

“ I never will ! So, there !" 

Lady Lee swung her sun-hat upon her arm by its crimson 
ribbons, and sprang lightly over the narrow ditch which sep- 
arated the lane from the great green pasture. Just inside the 
bars stood old Aunt Dinah, like a quaint figure carved in ebony, 
the yellow rays of the setting sun gilding her black features gro- 
tesquely, and resting in a halo upon her high towering, gaudy 
turban ; then glancing oflf and glinting over the shining milk 
buckets in her hand. 

It was evening, and milking time at the Lee Place, and old 
Dinah had emerged from the mysterious precincts of the 
kitchen to attend to her usual duties in the pasture. 


Bomr JEAN. 


61 


Moving slowly along at Lady's side, John Averill's tall 
figure loomed up in the dying sunlight. Grave he looked, and 
a trifle annoyed, his riding-whip ruthlessly switching off the 
heads of inoffensive flowers as he passed. Something was 
wrong with John ; that was plain to see. Whatever it w'as that 
had called him from home, in response to the negro’s message, 
had not proved of a lively nature evidently. 

His garments were mud-stained and splashed with water; he 
had had a hard ride of it, any one could see that at a glance, but 
it was not that which caused him to frow’n so gloomily, and 
Lady knew that she was at the bottom of the whole mischief. 

“I will never consent,” she repeated, saucily, glancing into 
his clouded face ; ‘‘so it is useless to refer to the subject again, 
Mr. Averill. I have decided never to marry.” 

“Lady Lee !” 

John’s face was pale with repression passion as he halted ab- 
ru|itly in the path before her ; but suddenly checking his out- 
burst, he assumed an indifference which he was far from feeling, 
and gave her as calm a glance as she had bestowed upon 
himself. 

“ I have only this to say,” he went on slowly, “ that you shall 
be my wife some day. Lady. ” 

“ Indeed I ” she began, but he interrupted her with a 

little gesture of command. 

“I have said it,” he went on, slowly and decidedly, “and 
you will find that my words will come true. And — so — you do 
not care for me. Lady ?*’ 

Her lovely dark eyes drooped before his earnest gaze. 

“ Not a bit !” she retorted, but her voiee trembled a little as 
she spoke. 

John smiled. 

‘ ‘ All right, ” he returned. ' ‘ But you will like me yet, Lady — 
nay, more, you will love me dearly I and furthermore, I say to 


62 


BONNY JEAN 


you now that the next time marriage is spoken of between us 
two, you will be the one to break the ice, and ” 

''Stop, John Averill 

Lady’s slender little figure was drawn up to its full height, her 
eyes sparkled with dangerous brightness, and her voice was full 
of indignation. 

" How dare you speak to me like that?” she went on, "and 
at my own home, too ! I shall tell my father to order you oif 
the premises.” 

"And I shall not go!” returned John, audaciously; "for, 
Lady, you know that I am right. But one thing I promise 
you — I will never again mention the subject of marriage to you; 
but I repeat what I have already said, the next reference to this 
disagreeable topic will proceed from yourself” 

A smile crossed the girl’s red lips. 

"You just wait for that time to come, John Averill,” she 
cried, saucily, "and I reckon you’ll be old and gray!” 

"Not a bit of it,” he answered, smilingly, "as you will live 
to discover. And now. Lady, I must see your father. I didn't 
come here to pass the precious time in quarreling. I have a 
mind to tell you what I did come for.” 

He hesitated, glancing toward old Dinah; but the negress 
had called up Whitefoot, the foremost among the bovine group, 
and was busily engaged in the operation of milking. 

"I will tell you,” continued John, in an undertone. "I 
received warning yesterday, Lady, just after I saw you, that the 
‘vigilantes' are on the war-path again; in other words, that 
detestable band of outlaw ruffians are engaged in carrying on 
their usual nefarious business — horse-stealing, etc. And I was 
informed yesterday evening that they are on their way to this 
place. Some of them have a grudge against your father, Lady 
— so I’m told — and they expect to be here to-nighr to run off 
your mules and horses. Flirt, especially, is 'spotted' for to- 
night’s spoils. ” 

While John was speaking. Lady’s face had grown very pale. 


BONNY JEAN 


53 


but she checked all outward semblance of fear, and as he con- 
cluded, she turned a brave, resolute little face upon her com- 
panion. 

“We will be ready for them !” she answered, quietly. “You 
will do what you can to assist us, Mr. Averill r 

Her tone was one of certainty ; evidently she had no doubt 
upon that score. 

“Why, yes, returned John, carelessly. “Td just as soon 
help you as anybody." 

Lady’s face flushed hotly, and she turned away. John’s im- 
plied indifference had hurt her, as he intended it should, and 
the young man bit his lips to repress a smile of amused satis- 
faction. 

“We had better go to the house and let papa know at once," 
went on Lady, after a short pause. “Bring your horse, Mr. 
Averill, if you please, and let Sam attend to him.’’ 

He led the horse along, and followed Lady’s footsteps until 
the great, roomy old house was reached. 

Sam, a diminutive negro, lounging on the grass-plot before 
the gallery, sprang up, and having executed his best bow, led 
John’s horse away to the stable, while the young man accom- 
panied Lady into the house. 

It was a large country-house, with an ample hall running 
through the center, and on each side large rooms, with doors 
and windows admitting plenty of sunlight and pure, fresh air, 
and the scent of innumerable flowers. Mr. and Mrs. Lee were 
sitting in the parlor, a large, pleasant apartment, the floor cov- 
ered with light matting, and the furniture much finer than that 
which one was apt to meet in that remote region, including a 
piano, guitar, and violin, upon all which instruments Lady was 
proficient. 

The old people greeted John with marked cordiality, while 
Lady ran off up stairs to change her dress, as she had but just 
returned from a ramble in the pine woods, and while she was 
absent from the room, John explained to old Mr. Lee the 


64 


Bomr JEAN. 


dangerous situation, and the necessity for being prepared for an 
emergency. 

“There’s not the slightest doubt that they will attack you, 
Mr. Lee,” said John ; “they do not like you anyway, and then 
you have some good horseflesh, and they mean to get posses- 
sion of it. I had my information straight from Coons, the 
darkey. He overheard some of the vigilantes planning the 
attack. Coons is grateful to me, for I saved his life when he 
fell into the river once, you remember, so he took pains to 
come and inform me. I rode off at once ; but I thought best 
to go right on to the village for a good supply of ammunition, 
and I was delayed there all night by an accident; that explains 
my late appearance here. ” 

“I wonder who these vigilantes are,” remarked Mr. Lee, 
nervously. “Have you any idea?” 

“No. I would give anything in the world to know,” replied 
the young man. “Their movements are certainly directed 
by some intelligent person ; but they commit their depreda- 
tions always masked, and it’s mighty hard to guess at their 
identity. ” 

“I shall never forget you, Averill,” cried the old man, grasp- 
ing John’s hand firmly, for your kindness in coming to my 
assistance !” 

“Pooh! that’s nothing!” returned John — “only a neigh- 
borly action. And now, Mr. Lee, to business. How are you 
off for weapons? We must be prepared for a lively time !” 

Mr. Lee looked serious. 

“Well,” he began, thoughtfully — “let me see. “There’s 
the big shot-gun ” 

“Just the thing !” interrupted John, gayly. 

“And then,” continued his host, “I have a Colt’s navy 
revolver — a six-shooter — can carry as far as the shot-gun, 
nearly. ” 

“Good I” cried John, 


BONNY JEAN 


65 


*‘And then there's the old carbine,” Mr. Lee added, “and 
Lady’s rifle.” 

“Can she use it?” 

The old man laughed until the tears stood in his dark eyes. 

“You’d better believe she can!” he exclaimed, merrily. 
“Why, Jack, did you never see our Adelaide shoot? I’ve 
known her to bring down forty pigeons at a shot, and she’s 
‘got her hand in’ on quail and snipe — no end of birds — on 
the wing, too 1” the old man added, gleefully. 

“Humph!” Well, perhaps she will have occasion to try 
her hand at larger game before to-morrow’s sun rises. I’d 
give something to be able to knock over a few of these vigi- 
lantes myself; then there would be a chance to find out the 
leader of them and string him up at the end of a piece of 
rope. We are not safe while such creatures are at large ; and 
not only our lives, but our property is in danger. ” 

“We will do all we can,” returned the old man, gravely. 
“Come out and have some supper now. We need to fortify 
ourselves. Then for our plan of defense !” 

“ Or offense,” suggested John, “for I’m determined to try 
to get at the first of these vigilantes !” 

He followed his host into the spacious dining-room, where 
Lady, radiant in a fresh white dress, with scarlet ribbons, 
was fluttering about, arranging the supper-table with her own 
hands. 

After the meal was over, they returned to the parlor, and 
the fire-arms were brought out for general inspection. John 
produced his own trusty rifle and the store of ammunition. 
The weapons were carefully loaded, and all was prepared. 

In those days there were no more laws in that remote region 
than — well, than there are now ! — no reliable authority to which 
to appeal for protection. Then, as now, the country was wild 
and lawless. When men wished to punish criminals, they took 
justice into their own hands ; quick work was made of it, and 
little mercy shown. 


56 


BONNY JEAN 


The preparations were made with expedition. Two sturdy 
negroes, upon whom they could depend, were called in from 
their cabins, their duties pointed out to them, and weapons 
placed in their hands. Then they all repaired to the barn, to 
be ready for the expected horse-thieves, and Mrs. Lee and Lady 
would not hear to being left behind, first locking and fastening 
the house securely, and loosing the two great blood-hounds 
upon the porch. 

It was a lovely night. The moon had arisen, and its silvery 
beams illumined everything around. Lady knelt upon a heap 
of fragrant hay, and applied her sharp eyes to a crevice in the 
planks of the building. All at once the hoarse growls of the 
hounds indicated the approach of some enemy, and soon a party 
of horsemen rode around in front of the barn, while one, evi- 
dently the leader, in a cautious tone, commanded the party to 
halt. Then followed the sound of subdued voices, and then 
the fastenings of the stable door rattled a trifle, the door swung 
softly open, and a man appeared on the threshold. But he 
never entered, for at that moment John Averill, kneeling in the 
loft above, unseen and unsuspected, leveled his rifle and fired. 
A terrible volley of oaths and curses followed, and the vigilantes, 
in a body, rushed into the barn. Tall and powerful, their faces 
concealed by crape masks, they were a formidable looking set, 
A general mdee took place ; some shots were fired, half a dozen 
vigilantes hurt badly, but, as yet, the leader was untouched. 

He was bent on getting possession of Flirt. The practiced 
eye of the fiend in human form had taken in all the fine points 
of the mare, and long ago he had determined to possess it. In 
the midst of the noise and confusion — the firing, shrieking, 
oaths, and curses — Gabriel Black contrived to slip around out- 
side the barn, and loosen a couple of planks in the side of the 
building next to Flirt's stall. Softly he threw a bridle over her 
head, and succeeded in fastening it. Then, still unobserved, he 
led the horse through the opening. At that moment, from 
above, Lady’s eyes fell upon the ruffian, and, like a flash of 


BONNY JEAN. 


57 


lightning, she realized the situation. Now, Lady loved her 
horse better than anything else in the world, except — well, there 
was one exception. The thought of losing the beautiful crea- 
ture almost deprived her of her senses. Pausing not to reflect, 
she opened the wooden shutter of the loft where she stood, di- 
rectly above the opening through which Black had led the 
horse. 

“ Flirt !” called Adelaide, softly. 

The sagacious animal paused, and glanced upward. 

Snatching a revolver from the hay, where some one had 
dropped it, Lady sprang through the open window. It was only 
four or five feet above the back of the horse — the girl had per- 
formed the feat once before in jest — and she alighted square 
upon Flirt's back. 

The captain of the vigilantes drew back in amazement at the 
unexpected apparition, while Lady caught the bridle in one 
hand, and, drawing the revolver, turned it full upon the ruffian's 
face. 

“ Dare to touch me, or my horse," she panted, and I’ll blow 
your brains out !" 

So complete was the villain’s astonishment, that he was un- 
able to utter a word — to make a movement — but stood staring 
through his mask at the intrepid girl. 

A sudden suspicion entered Lady’s heart. Always the crea- 
ture of impulse, she slipped the revolver into her bridle hand, 
and, turning suddenly, snatched the mask from the face of the 
vigilante. 

“Ah, Gabriel Black !’’ she exclaimed, quietly, “I began to 
suspect that you had a hand in this. ’’ 

With a maddened execration, he dashed forward to drag her 
from the back of the horse ; but Flirt could bear no more. 
With a wild snort the frightened animal flew off, like an arrow 
from a bow, bearing her young mistress with her. 

Infuriated at his failure, Black hastened around to the front of 
the building. 


58 


BONNY JEAN 


** Vigilantes 1'^ he shouted, wildly, we have been duped and 
fooled — by a woman — and the best horse is gone ! Turn the 
others out of the stable. We will burn the barn down, and 
end these devils’ lives !” 

They went to work with fiendish alacrity. Up in the loft, 
John Averill had heard the captain’s command, and he called 
the old couple to his post of observation, while the frightened 
darkeys crouched near in terror. 

“Quick !” cried John ; “they’re going to burn us out !” 

“ Like rabbits in a hollow tree, sah !” interrupted one of the 
frightened negroes. 

“Where’s Lady?” demanded John, suddenly, casting startled 
glances around the barn. 

“Gone, sah !” cried the negro, his teeth chattering with fear. 
“She done jump out de window, and flewed away — on her 
own boss, sah !” 

John Averill sprang forward, and shook the man until his 
teeth chattered like castanets. 

“What do you mean?” groaned Averill, stopping at last to 
take breath. “Where is Miss Adelaide, I say?” 

“ ’Fore God, Marse Averull,” groaned the terrified voice, “ I 
done seed her wid dese yere eyes ! Whew ! Gor a mighty ! 
we’s gone up now — suah !” 

For a great puff of smoke had arisen, followed by the crack- 
ling and snapping of burning wood. John saw that Lady was 
indeed gone, and, wild with horror and alarm, he turned to 
the stairs which led below, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Lee and 
the negroes. 

“ My God !” muttered John, brokenly, “there’s a black night's 
work going on. I would 

He paused, aghast, at the outer door. The vigilantes had 
gone! vanished like the fantasia of a dream, taking with them 
the remaining horses, and leaving the barn wrapped from top to 
bottom in seething flames. 


BONNY JEAN. 


69 


^‘Cowards !” hissed John Averill, setting his teeth hard to- 
gether ; ‘ ‘ ril have revenge for this, if I lay my own life down 
to gain it I” 


CHAPTER XI. 

IN THE OLD RED TAVERN. 

When Jean opened her eyes, she was in a strange apartment. 
A tallow candle burning upon a rickety table cast a faint, sickly 
light throughout the room, and disclosed a square, half-fur- 
nished chamber — the table aforesaid, two chairs, and the bed 
upon which Jean was lying, being the sum total of its con- 
tents. But her mothers kind face met the girks frightened 
eyes as she came back to the world again, and that atoned for 
all discomfort. 

Jean’s arm pained her frightfully. It had been dressed 
already by old Bill Corney himself, who had made his appear- 
ance during Jean’s insensibility, and announced his intention 
of attending to the wounds. Mrs. Conway knew him by repu- 
tation, and that he was reputed to be a good surgeon, in his 
rude and uncouth way. He knew the virtue of many healing 
plants and herbs which grow in the woods right in our path- 
way f yet we depend upon physicians and drug stores foi aid, 
when, but for our own ignorance, we might dispense with such, 
for Nature supplies us with her own sovereign remedies, only 
we are too blind to read her handwriting aright. 

As I have said, Corney had attended to Jean’s injury, and 
applied a healing lotion, which quieted the patient, and reduced 
the inflammatory symptorns ; and now Jean was conscious once 
more. 

‘‘Where are we, mother?" she queried, trying to sit up. 

“Lie still, dear," returned Mrs. Conway, gently. ‘‘I do 


BONNY JEAN, 


not know where we are, Jean. Old Corney has been here and 
dressed your arm, and so — and " 

She paused abruptly. Jean’s face had grown deadly white, 
and her eyes were dilated with horror unutterable. 

“You — ^you — don’t think that we can be at the old Red 
Tavern — do you, mother ?” she cried. 

For the notoriety which that dreadful place had gained within 
the past few years had reached their ears, and they shrank in 
terror from the very suspicion. 

“I do not know, Jean,” replied her mother, doubtfully, sit- 
ting down upon the bed, and passing her arm about the fright- 
ened girl. “We will try not to think so, anyway.” 

“Mother !” — Jean’s voice was low and full of alarm — “ I be- 
lieve I should die if I were sure that we are in that dreadful 
place! We have heard such fearful stories of what has trans- 
pired within its walls I There was the old peddler — ^you 
remember, mother 1 — who was known to have entered the old 
Red Tavern, with his pack, but was never seen afterward. 
Then, there was poor Mr. Lanier, who was murdered there in 
cold blood. I have heard that the spirit of the old peddler 
haunts the place. I — I Mother, what is that 

For the sound of a groan had fallen upon their ears, distinct 
and hollow. Again it was repeated. 

“ Who’s there ?” demanded Mrs. Conway, aroused from her 
usual gentle passiveness by her fear of the effect of all this upon 
poor Jean. 

“A friend,” the voice responded. 

“Friend!” repeated Mrs. Conway, scornfully. “We have 
none !” 

“lam your friend,” reiterated the voice, “and I warn you 
to escape from this place as soon as possible, or you will never 
leave it alive !” 

Mrs. Conway with difficulty restrained her horror from Jean’s 
observation. 


BONNY JEAN. 


61 


“We do not know where we are,” she began, and the voice 
interrupted her in a solem cadence : 

“The old Red Tavern I” 

Jean shrieked aloud. 

Mrs. Conway drew the golden head down upon her motherly 
breast, and kissed and soothed her into quiet. 

“We need all our strength, dear,” she whispered, “that we 
may be able to escape. ” 

“Escape!” repeated Jean, bitterly. “Did you ever know 
any one to escape from Gabriel Black, or the old Red 
Tavern ?” 

Mrs. Conway sighed. 

“God will help us, my daughter !” she responded, solemnly. 
“ He never forsakes those that trust in Him.” 

Then she gave Jean some quieting medicine, and still hold- 
ing the girl’s head, she sat there while the white lids drooped 
over the pansy blue eyes, and Jean’s slow and regular breathing 
told her mother that she slept. 

Then Mrs. Conway laid the golden head upon the pillow, and 
sat down beside the bed. Everything was unearthly silent ; a 
heavy, oppressive stillness, broken by no sound save a “death- 
watch” ticking in the wall, and an occasional chirp of a cricket in 
the fire-place near by. Moved by a sudden impulse, Mrs. Con- 
way arose and approached the wall of the room near her. Some 
instinct told her that the walls were padded, to prevent the pen- 
etration of sounds from without. She had seen such walls be- 
fore, and upon examination she found that her suspicions were 
correct. Whence had that voice proceeded, then ? Not from 
an adjoining room, for the sound could not penetrate. The 
room contained one window ; the sash had been removed, and 
a wooden shutter substituted, fastened on the outside. 

The chamber was without means of ventilation, and Mrs. 
Conway, accustomed as she was to the pure, fresh air of the pine 
woods, felt oppressed and full of lassitude already. 

How long must they remain there ? For what purpose were 


62 


BONNY JEAN 


they imprisoned ? The door double-locked on the outside — 
she knew by the sounds produced by fastening it when old 
Corney had left them. He had brought food and drink, and 
left it on the table. Mrs. Conway determined that when Jean 
should awake, they must partake of food, that they might have 
strength to escape, for she was bound to escape, if it lay within 
the range of human possibility. 

The time slipped by, and at last Jean awoke. 

“ Mother,’' she said, softly, “ I have been dreaming of Philip. 
I deeamed that he was here in this very room.” 

She sat up as she spoke, and glanced around. 

“Look!” she cried, suddenly. “ What — what is that.?” 

Upon the floor, in a dusty corner, where it had rolled evi- 
dently, was a small, shining object. Mrs. Conway hastened to 
pick it up. Jean’s face grew perfectly white, and she groaned 
in horror as she clutched it frantically. It was a small gold 
sleeve-button, set with pearls, and it had belonged to Philip 
Randall. Yes, there were his initials on the back of the button. 
Sick and faint with horror, the two women sat gazing into each 
other’s faces. Suddenly Jean turned her eyes toward the floor, 
and, grasping her mother’s hand, she screamed aloud : 

“See, mother!” she cried, pointing with one finger to the 
bare floor ol the room. “Great Heaven ! Philip Randall has 
been in this place — in this very room — and God help us ! they 
have murdered him !” 

And Mrs. Conway looking in the direction indicated by 
Jean’s trembling fingers, saw, with a wild thrill of horror, two 
great dark stains upon the bare floor beside the bed — the un- 
mistakable, ineffaceable stains of human blood ! 


BONNY JEAN 


63 


CHAPTER XII. 

DEAD ! 

On dashed Flirt, the lithe young rider erect upon the bare 
back of the fleet creature. It was not the first ride that Lady 
had ever taken without a saddle, but she began to imagine that 
it was destined to be her last, for Flirt fairly flew along, like a 
wild thing, and Lady could no more have controlled the horse 
in its present temper than she could have controlled the wind. 
She gave up at length, and allowed Flirt the rein, trusting to 
her sagacity not to break her own neck. 

Lady had found out now, without a doubt, who was the 
leader of the vigilances, and her heart sank as she recollected 
her own rash deed, for she was well aware that the villain would 
never rest until he had had his revenge. She was certain that, 
unless she could keep out of his way in some manner, he would 
take her life ; for, of course, it would be her duty to reveal his 
true character to the people of the surrounding country ; and, 
once revealed, Gabriel Black’s life was not worth a rye straw. 
If she could only keep out of his clutches ! But she was all 
alone — a frail, defenseless woman. How could she succeed ? 

On, on dashed Flirt. For hours they rodC as mad a race as 
that of the famous Tam O’Shanter. Even in her perilous posi- 
tion, Lady could not refrain from smiling at the comparison. 

“It only needs the witches !”she exclaimed, half aloud, and 
laughing a merry little ringing laugh as Flirt tore on — through 
a “branch” — and over the waters like a winged creature, safe 
to the other side. Riding without a saddle, with no wrap, or 
even a hat on her head. Lady’s position was not an enviable 
one ; but she had risked her own life to save her beloved horse, 
and she must accept the consequences. On they went. The 


64 


BONNY JEAN. 


moon, so bright and clear, would shine all night, Lady knew, 
and she felt no terror. 

At last, tired out. Flirt began to slacken her speed. And so 
the gray mists which precede the dawn began to appear in the 
east ; then a pearly streak, followed later by crimson and golden 
luster; and, at length, the god of day arose in all his glory. 
By this time Flirt was pretty well tired out, and was going on 
at an ordinary pace. 

Lady rubbed her eyes and glanced about her uneasily. They 
had not passed a habitation in all that long, lonely night ride, 
and now it was with a feeling of intense thankfulness that she 
caught sight of a column of dark smoke, and knew that some 
dwelling was nigh. She was so fatigued, so stiff and lame from 
her fearful ride, that she kept herself from fainting with diffi- 
culty. And so, coming around a clump of pines, she came in 
sight of a log-cabin. A rough-looking man lounged before the 
door, smoking as though his life depended upon it ; inside. 
Lady caught a glimpse of a frowzy-headed woman, busily en- 
gaged in cooking breakfast over a huge lightwood fire in the 
mud fire-place, and several half-clad children swarmed about, 
yelling and quarreling. Flirt stood still beside the low rail 
fence and before the house, where two or three long, lean 
porkers were industriously grubbing and squealing, and a yoke 
of oxen were patiently grazing. Lady essayed to speak, but 
her voice would not obey her, and she sat helpless on Flirt s 
back, while the man arose, and, with his hands in his pockets, 
puffing away at his corn-cob pipe, slowly approached her. With 
a mighty effort, Lady found her voice. 

“ May I go in and rest awhile, sir, if you please?’’ she asked, 
as meek as a lamb. 

Which r 

The man’s face expressed intense astonishment; he leaned 
against the fence and gazed with such undisguised wonder at 
the unexpected apparition, that his pipe fell from his mouth, 
and was captured at once by one of the youngsters aforesaid. 


BONNY JEAN 


65 


I am very tired,” continued Lady, ‘'and Td like to rest 
a bit.” 

“ Tired ? By craminy, Tsh think so !” 

His words, and the sharp looks directed at her attire and 
Flirt s bare back, spoke volumes. 

“ Help me down, please !” cried Lady, impatiently. 

The man, awed by her manner, obeyed, and the poor girl 
sank upon the ground at his feet. 

“Here, you, Mariar !” shouted the man, raising his voice 
to a pitch which brought his wife to the door at once. “ By 
craminy I the gal's fainted, or dead, or suthin’ 1 Come here, I 
say 1” 

“Mariar” hastened to the fore, and they carried poor Lady 
into the house ; and after a time she was resuscitated. 

Having drank a cup of black coffee, she begged permission 
to remain a day or two, until she would be able to travel, re- 
questing the man to ride to her father’s and acquaint him with 
her whereabouts. To all this the man agreed, and at length 
set out for the Lee Place, which Lady found, to her consterna- 
tion, was more than twenty miles away. 

:<« * * ♦ * * * 

Meantime at the Lee Place all was excitement, alarm, 
anguish, over Lady’s unknown fate. The days came and 
went ; the poor girl had been missing about a week, when 
one morning Flirt came dashing into the barn-yard, rider- 
less and flecked with foam. The poor old father wound his 
arms about the neck of the horse and wept tears of agony. 
John Averill, poor heart-broken John, had never ceased to 
search for Lady, night nor day, since her strange disap- 
pearance. He was a witness to this heart-rending scene, 
and the first impression which came to him was that Lady 
was drowned ; for Flirt would not desert her willingly. Even 
while they were discussing the fearful possibility, the bark- 
ing of the hounds announced an arrival, and the man whom 
Lady had sent appeared. His story seemed very probable, 


66 


BONNY JEAN 


and the poor old father, accompanied by John Averill, set 
out at once to return with the stranger to his house. 

It was nearly night when they started, and traveling all 
night, they arrived at the cabin by sunrise. Springing from 
their horses, they followed their guide to the door. 

“Mariar'’ put in an appearance immediately. 

“ Yeve come arter the gal, I expect?’’ she began, in her 
shrill voice, smoothing down her blue check apron as she 
spoke. ‘‘Wal, I’m mighty sorry; reckon as how ye’ll take 
it right hard, but you see that thar trip a-horseback was 
too much for her. She had ‘the fever’ on her when she 
got here, and — and — she didn’t live three days ! We couldn’t 
keep the body, ’twas too warm, ye know, and so she’s out 
thar !” 

The woman pointed with her skinny hand to a low, nar- 
row mound under a great magnolia near by. Old Mr. Lee 
sank down beside it without a word. John Averill, white, 
and stern, and uncompromising, came and stood beside it. 
He had no tears or sobs. 

“By this little grave,” he said, in a low, tense voice, and 
raising one hand heavenward as he spoke, “ I repeat my 
oath of vengeance ! So help me. Heaven, I will have the 
life of the fiend that is responsible for this deed !” 

There was a slight rustling in the bushes near, and John 
Averill sprang forward like one bereft of his senses. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

POOR lady! 

When Gabriel Black returned to his senses, after the blow 
which he had received while attempting to rob the widow and 
orphan, he was lying upon the grass, not far from the scene 
of his interrupted labor, and the pale, calm moon looked down 
upon him. 


BONNY JEAN. 


67 


He sat up and glared fiercely about, while a volley of impre- 
cations burst from his lips. He was stiff and sore from the 

effects of the blow, and lying upon the ground in the damp, 

heavy night dews had not improved his temper; but, after 
several ineffectual efforts, he was able to stagger to his feet, and 
walk slowly and painfully. 

Gabriel Black was playing a desperate game. His intention 
was to gain possession of the buried treasure, hoping to tempt 
Jean to be reconciled to her fate, and not dreaming that any 
woman could resist the golden lure which he would offer. If, 

however, the poor girl could not be won by gold, why, the 

treasure would be in his possession all the same, and the Con- 
ways, not knowing of its existence, would of course be none 
the wiser. And with such immense wealth in his keeping, 
Black would be willing to go away and trouble Jean no more, 
for to him money was the one great object in existence. Alas ! 
it is too frequently the sole aim in life to many human beings. 

But — though he did not know it — had Jean been aware that 
she was the lawful heiress to all this wealth supposed to be hid- 
den away under the marked gum tree, she would willingly have 
given it all to Gabriel Black if she might thus buy freedom 
from her hateful bonds and be relieved from his persecution. 
But Black never dreamed the truth ; he measured every one 
else by his own standard, and did not reflect that a pure, true 
woman prefers her own self-respect to all the gold of the 
universe. 

He saw that the way to the buried treasure lay through un- 
pleasant paths. Some one must know all; whoever was his 
unseen assailant must have been in possession of the secret. 
He resolved to give up the attempt for to-night, and striking 
into a narrow, almost imperceptible foot-path, he wandered on 
through the forest, his brain teeming with plots for future vil- 
lainy. It was nearly sunrise when, passing through an opening 
in the pines, he encountered the man whom poor Lady had 
sent to her father with the tidings of her whereabouts, As the 


68 


BONNY JEAN. 


man's eyes fell upon Black, he checked his horse and awaited 
his approach. A low and earnest conversation ensued, and 
then the man turned his horse's head and went back on a gallop 
to his home. 

Arrived there, he caught a glimpse of “ Mariar” and beckoned 
her aside. No one had seen him return, and poor Lady, 
within the house, lying on the patchwork- covered bed, never 
dreamed of the villainy which was taking place, the plot of 
which the man was hurriedly repeating for “Mariar’s” instruc- 
tion and edification. 

“Good luck for us!" cried the woman, at the first pause in 
his hurried intelligence. “We didn’t put a boss shoe over our 
door for nothin’. And you’re sure that Black’ll pay the hard 
cash, is you. Bob ? Bet you two bits he don’t do it !’’ 

“Wal," responded Bob, shaking his grizzly head with slow 
emphasis, “he’d better, if he wants to keep a hull skin I That’s 
all Fve got to say about it. I’m sho, Mariar, that he’ll keep his 
word ; and — a hundred dollars ain’t picked off every gall-berry 
bush that grows in the openin’.’’ 

“ Reckon chuckled the woman; “and the gal hain’t 
no airthly use to us. We mought as well take up with Black’s 
offer, and do as he axes us. Fm agreeable. Bob, if you is. ” 

The man nodded laconically, and so poor Lady’s fate was 
sealed. 

* * :|c 5jc :Je * 3|c 

It was several days later when Bob finally mounted his horse 
and started for the Lee Place. But, in the interim, strange oc- 
currences had taken place. Lady waited her father’s arrival 
with impatience, but he did not come ; neither did Bob put in 
an appearance, for, of course, she believed implicitly that he 
had gone, as represented, to her father’s. 

One day “ Mariar’’ came into the back room, where Lady 
was sitting alone, bringing with her a cup of coffee. 

“Ye'd better take a cup o’ black coffee, miss,” she began, 


BONNY JEAN. 


persuasively, “ and see if it don’t strengthen you. Thar ain’t 
nothin’ like black coffee for puttin’ life into a weak frame. ” 

And Lady, not wishing to appear ungrateful or indifferent to 
the woman s kindness, drank the coffee, never dreaming of the 
strong narcotic which had been infused into it. In a few mo- 
ments her head fell back, her eyes closed, and she was in a 
profound, dreamless, unnatural slumber. As soon as her 
heavy breathing assured the woman that the drug had taken 
effect, she hurried to the outer door of the cabin and beckoned 
Bob to enter. He obeyed the summons at once, and, wrapping 
a heavy shawl around Lady’s unconscious form, he bore her out 
of the house, and, getting upon his horse, which stood ready 
saddled, he rode off with Lady in his arms. Down the river 
he went, for three or four miles, perhaps, coming to a halt, after 
a time, on the river-bank. Here he dismounted, and bore the 
still unconscious girl to the water s edge, where a small canoe 
was fastened by a chain to an overhanging cypress. The ruffian 
proceeded to place the poor girl in the boat, and, leaning far 
over the water, he gave the tiny craft a smart push, which sent it 
away out into the middle of the stream. He stood for a few mo- 
ments, exulting in the success of his diabolical undertaking. 

“One hundred dollars cl’ar gain!” he muttered, eagerly. 
“ Twould a took a heap o’ wharf timber to brung me that, and 
here I’ve gone and arned it in two hours’ work I Black s a 
right smart fellow. I’d do anything for Mm /” 

He mounted his horse and rode away through the dim, green 
forest, and that same evening he started for the Lee Place. 

In the meantime “ Mariar” had worked long and earnestly, 
preparing the grave which was intended to deceive Lady’s 
parents and friends, and, by forcing them to believe that she 
was dead, would throw them off the track, and her fate would 
never be known. 

Gabriel Black had not possessed sufficient courage to kill the 
poor girl outright ; yet, if she lived and was allowed to return 


70 


BONNY JEAN. 


to her friends, the villain knew just how much his own life 
would be worth. 

Bob had refused outright to take Lady’s life, but the prospect 
of a hundred dollars for a “job,” such as he had just com- 
mitted, was too much for that gentleman’s avarice. Therefore 
he had consented, and had necessarily carried it out. 

The little canoe, with its precious freight, drifted slowly down 
the winding stream, now gliding in among a clump of bushes 
and water-plants, anon drifting on with the swift current — on, 
on, for many miles. But, One guided it, and watched over it, 
and directed its course. “Lo! the wicked shall not always 
prosper. ” 

And, at last, Lady opened her great dark eyes, and gazed 
around her on the fair, sunshiny scene. Consternation and 
alarm filled her heart. Where was she ? 

What had happened ? All around her was a wide waste of 
waters. She had drifted down the river to its mouth, and was 
now all alone on the pathless waters of Lake Pontchartrain — 
overhead the blue, smiling sky, the water rising and falling in 
huge foam-crested waves all about the frail craft, which glided 
onward as though guided by some unseen hand. 

Lady sat up, and endeavored to collect her scattered senses. 
Intuitively she seemed to grasp the truth — the fearful reality. 
She had been sent adrift upon the trackless waters by some 
enemy, some fiendish creature, who was even now exulting in 
her certain destruction. 

But Lady’s indomitable spirit was not crushed, even under 
the weight of the calamities by which she was overwhelmed. 

“Whoever has done this thing,” she cried aloud, glanc- 
ing fearfully about her, “ is a dastardly coward! It would 
have been more merciful to have put an end to my exist- 
ence at once !” 

The lake seemed deserted by all vessels. In those days 
there was not as much travel upon Lake Pontchartrain as 


BONKT JEAN. 


71 


af the present time, and Lady drifted on for hours without 
once meeting any sign of life, or any vessel. 

“Fm going to seek my fortune, like the maidens in the 
fairy tales !" she laughed. 

She seized the paddle which lay in the bottom of the 
boat — forgotten by Bob — and began to use it vigorously. 
She thoroughly understood the art of paddling a boat, and 
the little canoe shot onward over the great foamy waves. 

At last night came on, dreary and cloudy, and the dark- 
ness fell over all things, and closed like a gloomy curtain 
around her. The paddle was useless now, and she drifted 
slowly onward to her 'fate. Poor Lady ! 


CHAPTER XIV. 

D E A T H — F OR CERTAIN. 

What John Averill saw through the thicket of pines and 
low shrubs growing around the grove which he believed held 
his darling, was sufficient to startle even the strongest nerves. 
It was a face — a dead, white, unearthly-looking face, which 
peered out from behind a wide-spreading pine tree — the 
great dark eyes fixed full upon John’s startled countenance, 
while one white attenuated hand beckoned him cautiously. 

Something warned the young man to keep his own coun- 
sel ; he made no sign that he had observed the secret 
signal, and waited patiently for Mr. Lee to leave the spot. 
He succeeded in inducing the old man to enter the cabin 
for a little needful rest, and saying that he would soon 
return, he hurried away. 

Striking a path which led through the bushes, John fairly 
flew, so intense was his desire to reach the spot where he 
had seen that white, despairing face. But there was no one 
there / 

For an instant he paused aghast, fairly overcome by dis- 


72 


BONNY JEAN. 


appointment and chagrin. Something impelled him onward. 
He determined to know the meaning of that hasty and 
secret summons. He searched among the bushes ; he beat 
all about ; he even whistled, cautiously and softly, as a signal 
that he had returned ; but there was no response — no sign 

of a living presence, only What was that in the path, 

directly in front of him ? He stooped to examine. It was 
a foot-print, a tiny foot-print, fresh and plain, evidently recently 
made in the moist, damp earth at his feet. 

He clenched his hands together wildly. Was it Lady’s 
foot-print upon which he was gazing.? 

Glancing about in search of possible clews, his gaze fell 
upon a small, white object farther on in the forest. He 
sprang forward, and picked it up. It was a piece of paper, 
upon which had been hastily scrawled, in a bold, legible 
hand, these words : 

“John Averill : 

“Philip Randall was once a friend of yours ; do you know where he is 
now? He has fallen into the hands ol his worst enemies— even the vigi- 
lantes. Their leader is a fiend, and upon his head you must visit the 
death of the poor girl whom you come to seek. Rescue Philip Randall, 
and all the rest will be clear.” 

There was no name, no date ; but it was evident that the 
writer knew him, and all his private affairs. John drew a 
long breath as he endeavored earnestly to make out who the 
mysterious writer could be. But it was all of no avail ; he 
could not imagine. 

'‘The leader of the vigilantes!” repeated John, grimly. 
“The writer of this evidently believes that I am acquainted 
with that gentleman. My God I if I only knew who he is, I 
would ask no more ; for, as Heaven hears me, I would have 
his worthless life I I have sworn it ; for I have had no doubt 
of his agency in this terrible affair, and this communication 
‘ makes assurance doubly sure. ’ ” 

He paused and stood for a time buried in deep reflection. 


BONNY JEAN 


73 


‘^Poor Philip!” he exclaimed, at length. *‘Poor, good- 
hearted, noble, upright Phil Randall I I would give some- 
thing to know his fate. If I could rescue him I would do it 
gladly ; but I know nothing of his whereabouts. Until now I 
had believed him at his home in New Orleans. Well, I can 
only keep my eyes open and do my level best. Perhaps I may 
unravel this mystery yet. ” 

He hurried back to the cabin to the poor old heart-broken 
man, and they mounted their horses and rode away slowly, 
their hearts crushed by the awful, sudden blow which had fallen 
so unexpectedly. 

Hardly had John left the spot where he had heard the strange 
voice and discovered the warning letter, when Bob arose from 
his hiding-place behind a huge oak, and slouched away. 

“Reckon I’ll keep an eye on you, my fine young fellow I” 
he muttered to himself. “Like as not my one hundred will 
swell to a bigger pile. Bob’s heered the young chap’s secret ; 
and, dog gone me, if I ain’t just the cove to give it away !” 

He slunk into the rude stable, mounted his horse, and rode 
off into the woods. John and Mr. Lee had already taken 
their departure. Bob easily found their fresh trail, and struck 
into it. It was getting dark when at last he rode up within 
sight of the two, who were riding slowly abreast. Bob halted 
at a safe distance behind, and drawing a crape mask from 
his pocket, he tied it on quickly, effectually concealing his 
identity; then he rode along briskly, and drew rein at John 
Averill’s side. 

Good tvtmng, gentlemen I” he began, in a disguised tone. 
“ I’d be obliged to you if you’ll please to hand over any money 
or other waluables you may happen to have on ye 1” 

John whirled around suddenly on his horse, and confronted 
the robber. 

“Who are you?” he cried, in a clear, ringing voice. “I 
demand to know 1” 

“A vigilante 1” returned the robber, presenting a revolver; 


74 


BONNY JEAN. 


**and you’d better give me what I ask for, or I’ll send you both 
to kingdom come !” 

John and Mr. Lee were unarmed. In the excitement of 
their journey, and their anxiety to rescue Lady as quickly as 
possible, the thought of weapons of defense had not entered 
their minds. John remembered it now, when it was too late, 
with a bitter pang of regret. But if he must die, he would die 
game. 

With a sudden, back-handed stroke, so unexpected as to 
thoroughly demoralize the vigilante, John knocked the weapon 
from the robber’s hand. It landed in a clump of live oaks, 
several rods distant. John sprang from his horse then, and 
seizing the ruffian, dragged him from his own horse to the 
ground. 

Mr. Lee, intuitively understanding what would be required 
of him, dismounted, and catching the horse of the vigilante, 
hastily stripped its bridle off, and while John held the man’s 
arms behind his back, IMr. Lee bound them firmly. Then, 
turning suddenly, he tore the mask from the villain’s face. It 
was Bob, the man whose house they had just left. For an in- 
stant John recoiled in horror. 

“You villain !” he shouted, angrily; “you fiend! So you 
are a vigilante, too, are you t Now I begin to doubt the truth 
of your story about Miss Lee.” 

“It’s all true — every word of it I” affirmed Bob, doggedly. 
“ But I’m bound to have revenge for this 1 When I git home. 
I’ll dig up the body and toss it into the river for the alligators 
and buzzards to feast on 1” 

With a groan of agony and horror too deep for expression, 
the young man recoiled. He clenched his hand as though to 
strike the ruffian ; but he remembered that Bob was bound 
and helpless in his hands, and John Averill was too much of a 
man to strike even a brute when it was down. Bob scrambled 
to his feet 


BONNY JEAN 


75 


' ‘^Ontie my hands 1” he shouted, *‘and fight if ye want to. 
Tm your man !” 

John drew back with a haughty gesture, 

“No,’' he said, sternly. “ 1 only fight my equals. Get up 
on your horse,” he commanded. “There, I will help you. 
Come, Mr. Lee ; let us return to this creature’s cabin. I am 
going to take poor Lady from that grave at once. We will not 
wait, as we had intended, until we had broken the news to her 
mother.” 

They remounted, and, with Bob still bound tightly, turned 
their horses’ heads. The robber’s horse followed, trotting 
briskly behind them, and so they rode slowly back to the vig- 
ilante’s cabin. 

* * * * 

We left Philip Randall riding away after his miraculous escape 
from hanging. He did not pause to look for the road ; he flew 
on through the forest, wild with a hope of ultimately escaping, 
and never dreaming how near Jean was to him, and how fearful 
was her own peril. 

On he dashed madly through the pines. There was a sudden 
turn in the narrow bridle-path which he was trying to follow ; 
and, ere he was aware of it, he was in the midst of a party of 
horsemen, well armed, and their faces concealed by masks. 

“God help me !” groaned Philip, setting his teeth hard to- 
gether, and spurring his horse wildly forward. They rode up, 
and closed around him in a moment. 

“ Who are you.?” he demanded. 

“ Vigilantes r 

They sprang upon him and dragged him from his horse, 
which some one led quickly away. 

“ God help me !” repeated Philip. “ It is death for certain 
this time.” 


76 


:Bomr jeait. 


CHAPTER XV. 

AN UNSEEN FRIEND. 

For a long time poor Jean wept and moaned in bitter agony, 
and her mother vainly essayed to comfort her. Philip was 
dead ! That was the burden of her sorrow. Dead — foully 
murdered ; she felt certain of it. How came that sleeve-button 
in the little room at the Red Tavern, unless Philip had really 
been there? And the blood-stains upon the floor — fresh, 
frightful stains. The very recollection of them brought on 
deeper paroxysms of grief ; and Mrs. Conway began to fear for 
Jean’s reason. At last she appealed to the girl’s sense of honor, 
her pride and self-respect. 

“Jean,” she said, firmly, “do you forget that Philip Randall 
is a married man ? Even were _you free” — a shudder of horror 
passed over Jean’s slender frame — “for notwithstanding the 
dreadful bonds with which you are chained, my child, they are 
nevertheless firm, and you bound. Even were it otherwise, 
Philip is not at liberty to care for you, and he has never told you 
that he loved you, Jean.” 

It was when the poor girl’s grief was at its height that Mrs. 
Conway, chancing to turn away from the bed where Jean was 
lying, saw, to her surprise, something written on the white wall 
of the room. Greatly alarmed at her strange discovery — for she 
knew that it had not been there before, and, of course, no one 
had entered the room without her knowledge — she determined 
to find out, if possible, what it all meant. 

Taking the candle, she hastened to the spot, and read aloud 
the words which had been so mysteriously traced upon the wall, 
Jean watching her meantime with intense interest : 

“Do not grieve for Philip Randall.” (So ran the writing.) 
“ He is not dead, although he was a prisoner in this very room, 


BONNY JEAN. 77 

not long since. He escaped. If you wish to do the same 
thing, and will trust to an unseen guide, I will help you. When 
you have read this, erase it. ’’ 

Overwhelmed with astonishment and gratitude, the two 
could only clasp each other, and weep in silence. 

At last Jean raised her head, and there was a look of 
fortitude in her beautiful eyes. 

‘‘We are not forsaken, mother!” she said, softly. “God 
will not leave us desolate and helpless 1” 

They sat down, and waited patiently, feeling sure that they 
would hear from their unseen friend ere long. 

They had no way of knowing the hour ; they had no 
knowledge of day or night ; but in reality the night had 
fallen, dark and gloomy, with threatening rain ; when at last 
they heard a voice which seemed to proceed from the same 
corner of the room where the mysterious writing had ap- 
peared. 

“Extinguish your candle!” said the voice, softly, “and 
come into this corner. Feel along the wall until you have 
found a nail, w’hich has been driven in it. Press the head 
of the nail ; you will soon be in my presence, and I will 
lead you to a place of safety.” 

They wrapped their cloaks about them, then blew out the 
candle, and going to the place indicated, Mrs. Conway 
passed her hand over the smooth wall. At length her fingers 
came in contact with the head of a nail. Pressing upon it 
firmly, the panel slid aside, and they knew that there was 
an opening in the wall. They could not see an inch before 
them ; they knew not where they were going, nor into what 
unseen dangers their next step might precipitate them. 

“Hold your daughters hand, Mrs. Conway, said the 
strange voice, directly before them, “and I will lead you.” 

Mrs. Conway felt her hand clasped by firm, soft fingers, 
and then they moved forward, through what appeared to be 


Bomr JEAN. 


a narrow entry, then down a flight of winding, tortuous 
stairs. 

On they went, sometimes in danger of falling j but no acci- 
dent occurred, and ere long they felt the cool night air 
blowing upon their faces, and knew that they were outside 
of the dreadful Red Tavern. 

They strained their eyes through the darkness, to discover, 
if possible, the identity of their guide. But the utmost en- 
deavors failed to elicit more than a dark figure, which 
hastened on noiselessly before them, and led the, way through 
winding passages, in among trees and bushes, with a quick, 
cat-like tread, which was perfectly inaudible. 

“Don’t speak a word!” whispered the voice of the unseen 
guide ; “we are getting on dangerous ground now.” 

The two women could distinguish nothing through the 
gloom, and still trusting themselves to the guidance of their 
unknown friend, they made their way as rapidly as possible 
onward. All at once they came to a halt, and Mrs. Conway 
felt the hand of the stranger, which held her own, grow 
suddenly cold, and tremble violently. 

“My God!” ejaculated their guide, in tones of deepest 
terror, • “ it is he— Gabriel Black. We are lostT 


CHAPTER XVL 

WHAT HAPPENED TO PHILIP. 

The vigilantes hemmed Philip in on all sides, and prepared 
to make short work of it this time. 

“ Hangin’s too good for hirri !” exclaimed one of the band — 
a burly ruffian named Cooper. “I move we give him a taste 
o’ somethin’ else.” 

“What?” queried half a dozen hoarse voices in concert, 
while his comrades flocked nearer, like buzzards around car- 
rion — “what do you mean. Cooper?” 


BONNY JEAN. 


79 


Cooper paused to regale himself with a volley of choice ex- 
pletives. 

“Let’s chuck him into the river,” he cried, “and make buz- 
zards' meat o' him double quick !” 

“ Why, he can swim like a fish !” 

“You're a fool !'' retorted Cooper. “Do you think I’m 
green enough to give him a chance to swim ? Come here, 
Rousseau,” indicating a sallow-visaged, lantern-jawed fellow, 
whose crape mask only partially concealed his ugliness from 
view; got more sense than the balance. Come on and 

help me.” 

Cooper produced a long rope as he spoke, and, with the 
assistance of Rousseau, managed to tie Philip’s arms tightly 
upon his breast ; then they proceeded to bind his lower limbs 
together, Philip submitting without resistance, for he had made 
up his mind to die, and would not gratify the murderous 
ruffians with any show of terror. When he had been bound 
securely, and they had searched his pockets and found him 
unarmed, they carried the helpless man down the river-bank 
for a mile, perhaps, taunting, jeering, and insulting their pris- 
oner all the way. At length they paused at a certain point in 
the river, which seemed suited to their diabolical purpose. It 
was a small bayou, bordered by overhanging thickets, where 
the moccasin and other venomous reptiles made their haunt, 
while the bayou itself was literally alive with alligators. 

But the vigilantes little dreamed of the courage, the endur- 
ance, the fertile resources of the man whom they were about to 
murder; and little did they imagine that, as they bore him 
unresistingly along down the river-bank, Philip Randall was 
working out a problem in his mind — a plan for his own escape 
— which, impracticable as it might appear, was, nevertheless, 
not impossible; for the rope which bound his arms tightly, 
though new and strong, was no thicker than an ordinary 
clothes-line, and as they bore him onward, Philip’s strong white 
teeth were busy, gnawing like a rat — gnawing, gnawing, with- 


80 


BONNY JEAN. 


out an instant’s cessation ; and by the time that the river-bank 
was reached, and the spot where the vigilantes proposed tossing 
him in to his speedy destruction, Philip had gnawed the rope 
nearly in twain, except for a tiny fiber, which no one noticed. 

They arrived at the place at last ; there was a short delay, 
and then the ringleaders in the atrocity lifted Philip in their 
arms, and, with a fiendish shout, cast him into the shining 
river. A sudden sensation among the alligators, a few ripples, 
and Philip Randall sank out of sight. 

For a short time the vigilantes remained sitting upon their 
horses, watching with eager eyes for the reappearance of their 
victim ; but, strange, incredible as it seemed, they saw no trace 
of him. 

Cussed if ever /heered o’ such a thing !” ejaculated Cooper, 
uneasily. “ He never came up no more ! Wal, boys” — turning 
to the others as he spoke — “we kin tell the cap’n that he’s done 
gone, anyhow, for we throwed him in, didn’t we.?” 

“We did that !” responded Rousseau, shaking his grizzly head 
emphatically; “but, then, thar’s the question — the nat’ral ques- 
tion — zvhar ts he P” 

As there was no way of finding an answer to this problem, 
the vigilantes decided to give it up, and agreeing to report to 
the captain Philip’s certain fate, and claim the promised reward 
which Gabriel Black had offered for “making away” with Philip 
Randall, they finally turned their horses’ heads and rode off. 

They had hardly disappeared when Phil Randall’s head 
appeared above the surface of the water, a few rods distant 
from the shore. City chap as he was, Philip could not be 
beaten, or scarcely equaled in the art of swimming. He 
had gone down below the surface like a fish, and there he 
had remained until his hated enemies were gone. 

Now, as he arose once more, his teeth went to work at 
the threads which still remained between him and possible 
freedom. He gnawed furiously at it, keeping himself afloat 
meanwhile, and lo 1 one arm was freed at last. 


BONNY JEAN 


81 


‘‘Like a rat!” he muttered, with a little defiant laugh, 
“one single tiny creature can gnaw and gnaw until the 
strongest hempen rope is severed, and — I have done — rather 
— well, considering!” 

He was swimming with his one free arm all this time, 
and making considerable progress. On, on, slowly but 
surely ; he has loosened the rope which fastens the other 
arm, and now — he can swim quite well ; and yet, still, with 
one, he manages to work at the ligaments which bind his 
limbs. 

It is a long, weary, toilsome task, and Philip’s strength 
is very nearly exhausted ; but, after all, he succeeds, and is 
free — entirely free-^at last 1 He tosses his handsome head 
above the water with a little shout of defiance. 

“Ahead of you again, Gabriel Black I” he cries. 

But at that very moment a sound falls upon his ear — a sound 
which causes him to pause and glance about him in bewildered 
confusion ; and — well he may ! For, coming slowly toward 
him, cleaving the water with its sharp nose, like the stern 
of a boat, is a monster alligator, perhaps sixteen feet long 1 

When the vigilantes had thrown Philip into the river, the 
alligators, startled by the occurrence, and being naturally 
inclined to be cowardly, had all vanished immediately. But, 
during the interval, their courage had gradually revived, and 
hunger began to get the upper hand ; and now Philip per- 
ceived, with dilated, terror-distended eyes, that in the small 
bayou, where he had been thrown, and which was thickly 
overspread with huge lily-pods, there was a long row of alli- 
gators, one behind the other, like ships-of-war, meditating 
an attack, and led on by the hoary monster, whose dull 
round eyes were fixed upon his face, his huge jaws wide 
open, disclosing white, glittering tusks, terribly suggestive. 
What could he do? They had scented him now, and were 
advancing slowly upon him. He could not dive down to 
evade them, for the spot where he was was so thickly cov- 


82 


BONNY JEAN. 


ered with lily-pods that diving was impossible, and slowly 
but surely they crowded around — one by one — and hemmed 
him in. Philip glanced about him, and his heart sank. 
Everything seemed against him. Must he die, then, alone, 
like a brute ? 

Slowly the leader approached him, transfixing him with its 
snaky eye. Philip drew himself up among the lily-pods, 
and began to beat the water vigorously with a wild hope 
of frightening them away. 

The sun had set now, and twilight was coming on. Philip’s 
heart shrank appalled from the thought 'of what the dark- 
ness would bring. Better to be in the hands of the vigi- 
lantes, and meet death at the muzzle of a gun, and die 
like a man ; but to lie there, and be crushed between the 
ponderous jaws of these monsters, it was horrible 1 

On they came, increasing their speed now, as they neared 
their victim. Philip’s heart gave a great tumultuous throb, 
and he gave himself up for lost. 

“Never mind,” he muttered, setting his teeth hard to- 
gether, “ if I must die. I’ll die like a man !” 

He turned as he spoke, and a low cry burst from his 
pallid lips. 


CHAPTER XVII. 
lady’s fate. 

On floated the little boat, with poor Lady lying in the 
bottom. She had given up all hope now, and dropping 
the useless paddle, she crouched down in the canoe in silent 
despair. All at once a fragment of a text which she had 
heard her father read the Sabbath previous floated across 
her mind — ^just a few words, but they buoyed up the sinking 
heart, and kept Adelaide Lee from giving up altogether, 
“ I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.” 


Bomr JEAN. 


^8 


** God help me 1” moaned the girl, feebly. ** God in heaven, 
forsake me not !” 

God answers our prayers always when it is best and wisest for 
us that our petitions should be granted ; and even now, coming 
to Lady across the pathless waters, the means of escape from 
her perilous position were drawing near. 

The schooner Mayblossom, laden with shells from the great 
shell-banks at the mouth of the Tangipahoa River, had cast 
anchor far out on the lakes, at no great distance from where 
poor Lady’s frail bark was tossing up and down, at the mercy 
of wind and wave. 

Lifting her tired head at length, the poor girl caught a glimpse 
of a bright red light, and instantly, hope — which had not been 
dead in her heart, after all, but only sleeping — sprang up wide 
awake now, and, springing to a sitting posture, she drew the 
shawl closer about her, and began to shout wildly. 

On the deck of the Mayblossom Captain Piper was sitting, 
his pipe in his mouth, composedly watching the heat lightning 
which dashed across the eastern sky, where great murky banks 
of clouds were piled up, and the lightning cut its way like a 
sword through the darkness. 

“Think we’re going to have a storm, captain?” asked a voice 
at his side, and a young man, tall and elegant, decidedly out of 
place on that rough vessel, drew near. 

“Wall, no, I dare say we ain’t, Mr. Lester,” replied the 
captain, taking his pipe from between his lips,- relighting it 
slowly as he spoke, “though I wouldn’t beat all surprised if we 
did, arter all. For I must say I never come up the Tangipa- 
hoa, in all my experience o’ twenty odd years aboard a schooner, 
but what I got ketched in a thunder-storm. Powerful place for 
thunder and lightnin’ is the Tangipahoa.” 

“Indeed!” returned Harry Lester, with an amused smile, 
*‘then you do not visit the river often ?” 

Captain Piper took his pipe from between his lips, and 


84 


BONNY JEAN. 


knocked the ashes from it against a railing near by, expecto- 
rating freely meanwhile. 

“If he keeps that up long,” muttered Lester, to himself, 
“ he’ll have the lake over the deck, Tm afraid. Queer old cus- 
tomer, if ever there was one. ” 

“No, sir,” the captain went on, slowly and deliberately. “I 
ain’t much of a hand to go up yonder. That thar alius was a 
tight place ever since La Fitte had a rendezvous on its banks. 
Any way, this is my last trip over the lake for a long spell. I’m 
goin’ to build a vessel myself, and sha’n’t git out on the water 
agin till she’s done. Hope your trip’s been a pleasant one, Mr. 
Lester 

Harry Lester tossed his burned-out cigar overboard with a 
little sigh. 

“It has, indeed,” he returned. “ You see we city chaps get 
tired to death, sometimes, of the noise and confusion, and long 
to escape from it all for a short time. My profession is such (I 
believe I told you, Captain Piper, that I am an actor .?) that I get 
used up entirely before the end of the theatrical season ; and when 
the theater closes for the summer I’m at a loss for a quiet place 
to pass my vacation. Don’t want any bustle or gayety, you 
know, for it’s rest that I need, and especially this summer, when 
I was working on my own drama. That was how I came to 
take a trip on the Mayblossom, and I must say I have enjoyed 
roughing it immensely. Halloa, captain ! what’s that?” 

For, clearly and distinctly over the water, came a shrill, 
musical call, rising and falling upon the breeze like a plaintive 
wail. 

Captain Piper laid his pipe aside, and sprang to his feet. 

Thunderation ! he shouted, his ruddy face growing fear- 
fully pale, ‘ ‘ we’re in for bad luck this trip ! Thar ain’t no vessel 

around, Lester, or we’d see their lights ; so it must be a a” 

the old man’s voice shook audibly — “a speerit!” 

Lester laughed aloud. 

Spirit or not. I’m going to answer it !” he cried; and before 


BONNY JEAN. 


85 


the old man could intervene to prevent him, the young actor’ 
had sent forth a loud, sonorous halloa ! 

Again came the answer, fainter this time. 

Lester peered over the side of the vessel, straining his eyes 
through the gloom and darkness. 

Lady had taken the paddle, and was paddling for dear life, 
right in the direction of that red light, which to her meant hope, 
safety. 

On she came, and at length, panting and exhaused with her 
unusual efforts, she felt her boat grate against the side of the 
schooner, and in a moment more Harry Lester had leaped into 
the canoe, and, to his intense astonishment, found it occupied 
by a fainting woman. 

Captain Piper, recovered from his superstitious fears now, 
lent a willing hand, and soon Lady was on board the Mayblos- 
som, and fully recovered. Lester produced some wine and 
crackers, and the half-dead girl soon felt wonderfully revived. 

Then she related her strange story ; and Lester’s fine eyes 
glowed with indignation. 

“You will have to proceed to New Orleans, Miss Lee,” he 
observed, when Lady had finished her recital. “No money 
would tempt Captain Piper to return now. He is so super- 
stitious, he would swear that the action would bring him bad 
luck ! Your best course is to come on to the city ; once arrived 
there, I will place you on board the train for your home. Trust 
me. Miss Lee,” he added, gently;' “ 1 have a sister of my own, 
and all women are sacred in my eyes.” 

So Lady, very grateful for the kindness shown her, submitted 
quietly, and so the Mayblossom proceeded to the city of New 
Orleans. Arrived there in a few hours’ time, Mr. Lester left 
the schooner, and returned with an elderly lady — a plainly 
dressed, matronly woman, with a pleasant face — whom he in- 
troduced as his mother. She took Lady away at once to a large 
boarding-house, where she made her very comfortable, and was 
overwhelming in her acts of kind thoughtfulness. 


BONNY JEAN 


U 

• The morning after her arrival, Lady accidentally discovered 
in her room a newspaper; it was a recent number, and almost 
the first paragraph that met her startled eyes in a column of 
personal items was this ; 

“Mr. J. H. Lee, of the Lee Plantation, has sold his fine place, with all 
the stock, farming implements, etc., and, with his estimable wife, departed 
for Europe, yesterday, for an indefinite stay. The old people have never 
rallied from the shock of the death of their only daughter. Miss Adelaide — 
a beautiful and accomplished young lady ; and they have decided to leave 
their native land for a time, hoping that change of scene and climate may 
restore Mrs. Lee’s failing health.” 

Poor Lady 1 All was lost ! 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

A MIDNIGHT ROBBER. 

As Philip turned his eyes a low cry of gratitude escaped his 
lips, and that strong hope which rarely dies in the human 
breast sprang up and illumined his path once more. It was 
an apparently trivial matter that had elicited his gratitude and 
made fainting hope revive; but Philip had learned enough 
during his sojourn in the pine woods to feel that it would have 
a decided influence upon his desperate case. 

A large number of hogs, frightened and tormented by dogs — 
a pack of half-starved, ravenous hounds, bounding with fearful 
howls after them — had, in their terror and demoralization, 
rushed down directly to the river’s edge ; a gaunt, nearly fam- 
ished cur leaped after the foremost of the pack, and the porker, 
forgetting in its terror its normal dread of water, sprang wildly 
into the river, followed by the whole terrified crew. The dull 
eyes of the alligators glistened greedily. Doubtless they con- 
sidered it wisest to secure the dainty (?) morsels at once, feeling 
so certain of their larger prey. With one accord they turned 
toward the frightened swine and closed around them. There 


BONNY JEAN. 


87 


followed a succession of fearful yells, a crunching of bones. 
Philip waited to see no more. Their attention being otherwise 
occupied, and their heads turned away, the alligators failed to 
observe Philip, as, with a silent prayer for help, he scrambled 
from among the lily pods into clearer water, and struck out 
boldly for the shore. 

But just then one of the foremost of the alligators, chancing 
to turn his head, caught a glimpse of the young man cleaving 
the water with swift strokes, and with a sudden movement the 
alligator, dashing the water furiously with its tail, started in 
pursuit. On swam Philip for dear life — on, on — he’s nearly at 
the goal now ; the alligator is close behind him ; he can feel it 
cut the water within two feet of his own limbs; but Philip re- 
doubles his efforts and flies through the water. 

The alligator is a natural coward, and rarely attacks a grown 
person ; but when half starved, as was now the case, and mad- 
dened by the taste of blood, which it had already obtained, 
there is no telling to what lengths its voracity may lead it. 
Certainly this was a most formidable monster, and Philip’s heart 
sank as he felt it gaining upon him; nearer — nearer; a moment 
more and the alligator would have had him fast enough. But 
just then, on the opposite bank of the river, a man appeared, 
clad in hunting garb, with a rifle in his hand. An alligator is 
a difficult customer to dispatch ; its tough hide is almost im- 
pervious to bullets, and hunters usually like the sport and the 
eclat of having killed a particularly large one. The hunter 
raised his rifle, took deliberate aim, and fired. The alligator 
went down out of sight, the water all around him dyed with a 
crimson stain. 

Hidden by a clump of driftwood, Philip escaped the hunter’s 
observation, and the alligator appearing no more, Philip, from 
his post of observation, saw the hunter move away. He made 
no attempt to attract the man’s notice, for he knew not but that 
he might be one of the hated vigilantes, and Philip was too 
prudent to risk an encounter. But as soon as he had gone 


88 


BONNY JEAN 


Philip swam to shore, and pulling himself up by an overhang- 
ing cypress, landed in safety. Then he arose and looked about 
him. His clothes were as wet as they could be, and he was 
halt famished, but he feared to go in search of a habitation, for 
he knew not how soon he might stumble across some of the 
vigilantes, and he preferred to die of starvation, all alone in the 
forest, to that alternative. 

Sitting on the river-bank, endeavoring to dry his drenched 
garments, he heard, at length, the whoop of a cattle-driver, 
and presently a little negro boy came in sight, driving his 
cows home from the evening milking. Philip beckoned 
him to his side, and showing him a piece of money (for 
fortunately a small sum of money had escaped the notice 
of the vigilantes), he begged the child to bring him some- 
thing to eat. This the boy consented to do, and then dis- 
appeared around a bend in the river-bank. After a con- 
siderable delay he reappeared with some coarse corn bread 
and fat bacon, which he presented to Philip, received the 
promised reward, and soon hurried away as though half- 
frightened at his encounter with the wet and forlorn-looking 
stranger. 

Philip partook of the unpalatable fare with keen relish, 
for ‘‘hunger is the best sauce,” and then, as it was getting 
quite dark, he arose, and feeling greatly refreshed, and his 
clothes being nearly dry, he determined to move on. The 
negro lad had informed him that he was on the road to 
Lee’s Landing, and Philip hoped that if once he arrived 
there he would find a schooner loading with wood or shells, 
upon which he might secure passage for New Orleans, where 
he proposed obtaining a detective to assist in the search 
for Jean and her mother. 

With this hope in his heart he hastened on. Darkness 
fell over all things, yet Philip made his way slowly, but 
surely. At last he could go no farther. The night had 
grown old now, and so dark that he saw at once the folly 


BONNY JEAN 


89 


of attempting farther progress. So he seated himself, with 
a bed of soft moss for a cushion, and prepared to wait 
for the coming of morning. All at once his eyes fell upon a 
light — a small bright light — moving slowly onward toward 
him. 

“A “ will-0 -the-wisp, or a “jack-a-lantern !" he decided, 
after a long survey ; but as the light grew rapidly larger 
and nearer, Philip finally distinguished that it was a lantern 
in the hands of some person, and as its rays fell upon the 
face of the man, Philip could with difficulty restrain himself ; 
for he recognized Gabriel Black. Upon his shoulders Black 
carried a spade, an ax, and a rifle. Heavily laden, indeed ; 
but he had come armed, determined that his work should not 
be interrupted this time, or if it was, some one would be hurt. 
For the villain was on his way to make a second attempt to rob 
the lonely widow and helpless orphan. He drew very near the 
spot where Philip was sitting, and paused there. Then he 
placed the lantern on the ground, and laid the rifle beside it 
with the ax ; then taking the spade, he moved slowly toward 
a certain tree. 

“Here is the gum with the cross upon it,” he said aloud, 
his voice breaking the silence of the lonely place, with a 
strange, supernatural sound. “Pm ahead this time. And 
now for the chest of gold !” 

Philip Randall arose cautiously, and creeping silently for- 
ward, seized the rifle which Black had deposited upon the 
ground. There was a light in Philip’s eyes that looked dan- 
gerous. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

DISAPPOINTED HOPE. 

“All is lost I” repeated Jean, mechanically. 

They stood silent as the dead, while the tall, dark form of a 


90 


BONNY JEAN 


man came slowly toward them, a lantern swinging in one hand. 
He held it up, and its yellow rays shone upon the pale faces of 
the two refugees. 

Their unknown guide had disappeared. 

“Great heavens !” ejaculated Gabriel Black, as he gazed into 
the pallid faces, “you are smart, sure enough, to escape from 
the Red Tavern ! You’ll lose your way out here, though. 
Come.” 

He caught Jean rudely by the arm as he spoke. But he had 
gone a little too far. She turned suddenly, and, clenching her 
fist, struck him a stinging blow full in the face. 

“Dare to touch me !” she panted, “and I will strangle you, 
you monster I Your very touch is pollution !” 

“ Curse you !” groaned Black, madly ; “ I’ll make you pay 
dearly for that blow, madam ! Turn about, now, both of you, 
and get into the house again. You shall know what it is to 
suffer now, I promise you.” 

In silence — for resistance was useless — Jean and her mother 
moved onward, their faces turned in the direction of the hated 
den, where they seemed likely to pass the remainder of their 
lives. It would be useless to oppose the will of the inhuman 
wretch who had them in his power ; for they Were two feeble 
women in the hands of a fiend, who had others as vile as him- 
self at his beck and call, and “ might makes right,” sometimes. 

They were confined in a small, uncomfortable room. The 
one window was not barred, or particularly fastened, but old 
Corney’s wife was set to watch them — a coarse, vulgar woman, 
fit mate for her brutal husband. As soon as the prisoners be- 
held their keeper, they realized that there was no help from that 
quarter. 

Time passed, and nothing occurred to break the monotonous 
calm about them, and gradually the two poor creatures settled 
down into a dull apathy. There seemed no hope in the wide 
world for them. All was darkness — dreary, and unlighted by a 
single star — and their hearts were well-nigh despairing. Mrs. 


BONNY JEAN. 


91 


Corney reported their weak and feeble state, and wine and 
nourishing food were furnished the two prisoners ; for Black 
had no intention of killing them — not just yet, at all events. 

One day, sitting silent and sad, they heard a faint tapping at 
the window-pane. Jean glanced at her mother in alarm. Mrs. 
Corney arose, and approached the window carelessly. A little 
bird — a tiny, snow-white creature — was outside, beating the 
pane violently with its wings. Mrs. Corney’s dull eyes were 
upon her prisoners’ movements, and Mrs. Conway forced an 
air of indifference as she said : 

“ Mrs. Corney, couldn’t you get me that bird ? See ! it is a 
pigeon, and I am very fond of them. ” 

Now, Mrs. Corney had but one idea in existence — eating. 
She could understand and appreciate her prisoner’s desire to 
possess the dainty morsel ; so, with a less ungracious manner 
than usual, she arose and opened the window. As I have al- 
ready said, there was no unusual fastening to this window, Mrs. 
Corney ’s constant presence in the room, both night and day, 
being considered sufficient precaution ; and there was an armed 
sentinel posted below the window, which fact the two women 
had already ascertained. 

As Mrs. Corney raised the sash, the pigeon, a lovely white 
thing, flew in, and fluttering across to Jean, nestled upon her 
shoulder. Jean could scarcely repress a cry of delight ; for 
she recognized the bird as a carrier pigeon, which had be- 
longed to her dear friend. Lady Lee. 

How could she communicate that fact to her mother, who 
had never seen the bird before, and of course had no idea to 
whom it belonged ? Their jailer’s eyes were upon them, and 
Jean felt instinctively that Mrs. Corney must not know the 
truth. Jean was a tolerable French scholar, and could have 
expressed herself in that language (which was Greek to Mrs. 
Corney), but unfortunately her mother’s knowledge of French 
was quite limited, so that would be impracticable. All at once 
a sudden inspiration darted into the girl’s bright mind. 


92 


BONNY JEAN. 


Smoothing the pigeon’s ruffled feathers, and petting it in her 
pretty demonstrative fashion, Jean managed to turn her back 
upon Mrs Corney, and glance into her mother’s face signifi- 
cantly, and meanwhile upon her fingers she began to spell a 
sentence in the deaf and dumb alphabet. For the Conways 
had once owned a deaf and dumb servant — a negro who could 
neither speak nor hear ; and the family had all learned to con- 
verse quite fluently in that dumb fashion. And Jean’s nimble 
fingers managed to spell quickly : 

^^The bird belongs to Lady Lee. Could I send a message to 
her 

For poor Jean did not know or dream of all that had be- 
fallen her friend, and that Lady’s fate was as pitiable as her 
own. 

Mrs. Conway nodded encouragingly. Jean understood and 
determined to make a prodigious effort, 

Providence favored her. After a time Mrs. Corney arose as 
though to leave the room. 

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she answered. “Don’t airy one 
o’ ye dare to move !” 

And the door closed behind her. There was not an instant 
to lose. Jean snatched a pin from her dress, and with it rudely 
scratched one of her fair white arms until the blood spirted 
forth. Her mother meanwhile had torn a small scrap of wall- 
paper from the wall, which chanced to be covered with a hideous 
representation of various birds, and fishes, and reptiles — sup- 
posed by Red Tavern critics to be marvels of art and beauty. 
Dipping the pin into the fresh red blood which flowed from her 
arm, Jean managed to scrawl on the reverse side of the paper 
these words : 

“Mother and I are prisoners in the old Red Tavern. For God’s sake, 
help us. Jean Conway.” 

A bit of thread lay on the floor of the room, where Mrs. Cor- 


BONNY JEAN. 


93 • 

ney had been sewing. Jean picked it up and dextrously fas- 
tened the tiny note to the neck of the bird. Jean knew its 
habits well. The pigeon had been trained to carry messages, 
and the hearts of the prisoners beat high with hope. Jean ven- 
tured to lift the window a trifle, and with a little flutter of its 
white wings, the pigeon flew away, just as Mrs. Corney entered, 
a frown on her sullen face. 

“Didn’t I tell ye not to dare to move?” she cried, angrily. 
“Wal, seein’ as how ye’ve done it, ye can stay thar now, and 
see all thar is to be seen. ” 

As she spoke she pointed one skinny finger, and from the 
window the terrified Jean beheld Gabriel Black on the green 
outside, his rifle aimed at the little carrier pigeon. 

There followed a loud report, something small and white 
fluttered to the ground ; and half dead with disappointment 
and dismay, the two women beheld this hope, like the others, 
crumbled to ruin. 

After that there seemed nothing left to them but utter despair. 
They had forgotten that 

“ After the night, the light. 

After the storm, a calm.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

WAITING FOR VENGEANCE. 

Let US go back to where John Averill and Mr. Lee, with 
their prisoner, the brutal vigilante, returned to Bob’s cabin, in 
quest of poor Lady’s remains. But when they arrived there 
they found the house deserted. Marian and the little ones had 

“ Folded their tents, like the Arabs, 

And silently stolen away.” 

John rushed frantically to the little grave — the low, red, 
clayey mound, with a few blades of cocoa grass just beginning 


BONNY JEAN 


U 

to show their ubiquitous heads above the soil. He searched 
about the premises until at length he had found a spade, and 
began at once to dig. For, horrible as the possibility was — 
fearful as the sight upon which he expected to gaze— John felt 
that the uncertainty of suspense would be even more horrible. 
He worked away with a will — the stricken old father, who had 
sunk upon the grass not far off— turning his head and bowing it 
upon his clasped hands. Bob lay, still bound, upon the ground 
near by. 

On, on, John's toil relaxed not. The perspiration was stand- 
ing in great beads upon his clammy forehead, and his heart 
surged and beat tumultuously. On he worked. His spade 
struck something at last with a hollow thud. He paused, and 
his lips moved in silent prayer. Then, with a heroic resolve, 
he threw aside the spade, and sprang into the aperture. Yes, 
there was a coffin, rude and rough. Setting his teeth hard to- 
gether, his face pallid, his eyes blazing, John wrenched off the 
lid — then recoiled, with a low exclamation of horror. 

A putrefying human body met his gaze — a woman, for the 
hair, dark and shining like satin, was plaited in a coil upon her 
head — but the features were entirely indistinguishable, and 
covered with a damp, yellowish mold. 

Shuddering with horror, John buried his face in his hands. 

To think that she, the beautiful, sprightly girl who had 
laughed in his face just the other day, when he had told her of 
his love, should be there before him now, a thing of corruption ! 

Ah ! in that hour, if John Averill had stood face to face with 
the leader of the vigilantes, the wretch who was responsible for 
this hellish work, he would have crushed him as he would a 
viper in his path. 

John left the horrible pit, and came and stood before Mr. 
Lee. His pallid face confirmed the old man’s worst fears. 

“We will take — it — away with us!” groaned John, pointing 
toward the open grave. “Ride on home, Mr. Lee, if you are 
able, and break the fearful intelligence to your wife. I will re- 


BONNY JEAN 


95 


main here,- and have — the body — properly fastened in the cof- 
fin ; then I shall take this man's wagon— *I see one yonder — 
and follow you as rapidly as possible. But,” and a savage 
gleam lighted up John Averill’s dark face — “ I’m bound to have 
it out with yonder devil ! I have a mind to kill you as you lie 
there !” he cried, gazing into the scowling face of the ruffian, 
Bob — “you murderer r 

•“I only done what I was told to do !” growled the man, his 
terror at his own imminent fate overcoming his prudence. 

A sudden inspiration came to John. What if he killed this 
brute cowering at his feet — what good would it do? It would 
not bring his lost darling back to life, from that hideous pit 
and the reeking habilaments of the grave. This man. Bob, 
had only done what he, as a vigilante, was sworn to do — obey 
his leader in every detail After all, he was scarcely responsible. 
But the leader — he who was responsible — Heaven ! let him 
cross John Averill’s path ! John clenched his hands fiercely, 
and for a moment there was murder in his eyes. He stooped 
over the trembling wretch at his feet. 

“Kneel down!” commanded Averill, sternly— “ down on 
your knees ! I am going to deal with you as you deserve 1 

“Kill me, I ’spose?” muttered the wretch. “Wal, go 
ahead 1 I only done my duty and kept my oath to the 
cap’n. ” 

“Listen!” 

John transfixed him with his angry eyes. 

“ I have your revolver here!” — holding it up before Bobs 
frightened eyes — “and I can take your life as easily as I can 
move my hand. But I swear to let you go free, if you will dis- 
close the name of the leader of the vigilantes. 

“You will /’ 

“ I have said it !” 

Bob's dull eyes brightened. This was more than he had 
dared hope for. 

“And, mind yon,” continued John, savagely, “if you dare 


96 


BONNY JEAN. 


to give me the wrong name — to attempt to deceive hie — or set 
me on a false scent, I’ll have every detective in the State 
of Louisiana after you,, and your life won’t be worth a nickel. 
Do you understand ?” 

“Yes,” replied the wretch, doggedly. “And you’ll keep 
your word, Mr. Averill ?” 

“So help me, God!” responded John, solemnly. “Take 
your choice — and be quick about it ; your life, or divulge the 
the name of your captain !” 

“All right; I’ll tell you — and I swear, afore God, it’s the 
real honest truth I’m a-tellin’ 1 The name o’ the captain o’ the 
vigilantes is — is — ” his voice sank almost to a whisper, as 
though he feared that it might reach the ears of some of the 
band possibly lurking thereabouts — “his name is Gabriel 
Black !” 

“God in heaven !” groaned John, “I will have his life be- 
fore another week goes around. There is not room enough on 
this earth for him and me ! Get up now ! I have no further 
use for you, only — I warn you — keep out of my sight in future ! 
You will, if you are prudent !” 

He unbound the ruffian, and as Bob staggered to his feet 
once more, John wheeled suddenly and pointed the loaded 
revolver straight at his heart. 

“Get out of this 1” he cried, savagely — “double quick, too, 
or I’ll forget myself and put a bullet into you any way. The 
very sight of you drives me mad I” 

Bob did not pause to argue the matter. He vaulted upon 
his horse, which was grazing not far away, and turning his head 
in an opposite direction, rode off as though all the furies were 
after him. The vigilantes, in round numbers, were brave 
enough ; a dozen or two in company could accomplish most 
dastardly outrages ; but, individually, they were a cowardly set, 
or they would never have connected themselves in such a fear- 
ful brotherhood. For “the bravest are the tenderest,” and a 
bully is always a coward and a sneak. 


BONNY JEAN 


97 


Scarcely had Bob’s flying figure disappeared from sight, when 
a negro came around a bend in the clearing — the same negro 
who had warned John regarding the intended attack of the vigi- 
lantes on the Lee Place. With his assistance, John succeeded 
in finishing his fearful task, and then, harnessing his own horse, 
by means of an improvised harness, into Bob’s wagon, the 
two started on their journey to the Lee Place with the sad 
burden. 

I pass over the mother’s fearful grief ; pen cannot depict it 
or words do it justice. At length, being convinced that Mrs. 
Lee would certainly die, if they remained at the lonely, desolate 
home, John Averill proposed that they dispose of their planta- 
tion to himself, and go away for a long journey, hoping to ben- 
efit the poor old lady’s health. If they saw fit to return again, 
his house should be their home. He named a generous sum 
for the property, and paid the cash upon the spot. So, ere 
Lady had been dead (as they believed her) scarcely three weeks, 
the old couple had taken their departure for Europe, where 
Mr. Lee had relatives ; and John Averill remained at the Lee 
Place, determined to carry on the farm, and keep green the 
little grave, which had been made in a beautiful, shady nook, 
and which, he believed, held his lost darling. 

A marble shaft arose skyward, bearing the dainty name of 

Adelaide '* — simply this, and nothing more; purple pansies 
clustered about the base of the monument, and the grass grew 
soft and green around, starred with lilies and daisies. 

Here the young man came, every evening, just at sunset. 
He grew quiet and reserved ; life had lost all charm for him, 
and the neighbors began to say that young Averill was going 
crazy. But one object possessed his mind night and day — the 
wild, unappeased hunger for vengeance — vengeance upon the 
man who had brought all this misery upon his life ! 

He had sworn to gain it ; and his eyes were ever open, his 
heart vigilantly watching for that time. And woe to Gabriel 
Black if he falls into the hands of this, his bitter, implacable, 


98 


BONKT JEAN. 


unforgiving enemy ; for the lion of the forest, that rends its 
victim with its iron jaws, is more gentle than the unquenchable 
hatred of the man who seeks vengeance for all this wrong ! 


CHAPTER XXI. 

LADY. 

And where was Adelaide Lee all this time .? On a sick-bed, 
ill with nervous fever, the natural consequence of the tax im- 
posed upon her system, the result of all that she had gone 
through. Many days were born and died before Lady was 
herself again, and during her entire illness she was carefully 
tended by Mrs. Lester, the mother of Harry, and his pretty 
sister, Lillian. They were all theatrical people, and a kinder, 
nobler-hearted family could not be found. Truly Lady could 
have fallen into no better hands. During her long illness she 
learned to love Mrs. Lester dearly, while Lillian became as a 
sister to her. 

At length, one morning in early autumn. Lady was pro- 
nounced convalescent, and her recovery certain. Sitting in her 
own room at the boarding-house where the Lesters made their 
home, clad in a dainty white wrapper, and looking very wan 
and spirituelle, Lady received Harry Lester for the first time. 
He came and sat down beside her, laying a bouquet of exquisite 
white lilies in her thin hand. Lady remembered her lilies at 
home, and the tears rushed into her eyes. 

“ How kind you are, Mr. Lester \’* she murmurmed, softly, 
pressing the flowers to her lips. The action was involuntary, 
and Lady's memory was busy with home scenes and home 
sounds ; but it broke down the barrier of reserve which had 
hitherto lain between the young man and herself. Harry Lester 
caught the little fragile hand, and pressed it to his lips. 

“ How I love you !" he exclaimed, passionately. “ I cannot 
help it, Adelaide I” he added. “I have striven to repress my 


BONNY JEAN. 


99 


love, but it will not be repressed ; the love lives, and will con- 
tinue to grow and flourish. Adelaide, darling, say that you 
care a little — that there is some hope for me !" 

Lady felt her frightened heart grow numb and chill. 

^‘I — I am sorry, Mr. Lester,’' she faltered, faintly. “I had 
not dreamed of this. I — cannot marry any one. I do not — ” 
she hesitated, a pink flush stealing into her white cheek. 

“Are you betrothed to any one V’ he cried, anxiously. 

She shook her head. 

“ No ; I do not — care — for any one.” She brought out the 
last words with a gasp. “ I — I — oh, do not trouble me about 
love. I do not — ever — intend to marry.” 

“ Queer little thing !” Harry could not repress the exclama- 
tion. “You will learn to love me in time, dear,” he went on; 
“only promise to become my wife, and I will teach you to love 
me. You do not dislike me. Lady?” 

“Dislike you?” she repeated, blushing furiously now. “ Oh, 
no, no! How could I? You saved my life. And you and 
your family have all been so kind to me. Indeed, I like you 
very much. 

“Then promise to be my wife,” he pleaded. “And, Lady, 
we will go to Europe, and find your parents. Think how 
happy they will be to find you living ! As for myself, I know 
I am not much more than a stranger to you, but you can easily 
satisfy yourself in regard to my family and character — every- 
thing that a prudent woman would wish to know before she 
unites her life to another’s ‘for better, for worse.’ Perhaps” — 
his face clouded — “you. object to my profession of actor?” 

“By no means,” cried Lady, heartily. “And — and I was 
going to ask you to get me a situation on the stage. I have 
never- acted, but I feel as if I could, and I think I might be fitted 
to fill the place of soubreile. Lilly thinks I might in time become 
a comedienne, and I should like it of all things, Mr. Lester.” 

“Say Harry,** he whispered. 

Lady turned her head away. 


100 


SONNY JEAN 


** Harry, then, she pouted. But will you promise to find 
me a situation ?” 

‘‘ If you are determined to work I will do the best I can for 
you,” replied Lester, gravely. ^‘But, first, I must have an 
answer. Lady, dear, will you not try and care a little for me ? 
Will you not engage yourself to me. Lady, and be my promised 
wife ? You do not love any one else ; so, Lady, say yes.” 

And ere she was scarcely aware of it his ring was on her 
finger, and poor Lady felt that she was irrevocably bound. 

Remember, I do not love you,” she whispered, after a 
pause. I have only pronlised to /ry, and if I should discover 
that I — I — it’s absurd to //imk of such a thing — but if I should 
ever love any one dearly, Lll be bound to tell you, Harry. And 
then — well, you mustn’t make too sure of me l” 

And he assured her that he would be glad to get her on any 
terms. So, the matter was settled ; and Lady, who was being 
misled by feelings of pure gratitude, was betrothed to Harry 
Lester. 

She had already sent a note to the seminary where Jean Con- 
way had been educated, begging her friend to come to her, but 
had received a line in reply from the lady principal to the effect 
that Miss Conway had never returned to school. 

Lady knew not where to look for the Conways. She had no 
other friends in New Orleans, and she felt alone in the great 
wide world, save for the Lester family. 

She adhered to her resolution to go on the stage ;” for she 
was too independent to be a burden upon the friends who had 
been so kind to her. She gave Harry Lester no rest, until at 
length a position was assigned her, and Lady went to work with 
a will to fit herself for her new duties. 

By nature she was well calculated for a comedienne. There 
was a mine of talent and versatility hidden in her gay nature, 
and by dint of diligent study and careful rehearsing Lady soon 
did credit to herself and her instructors, and before many weeks 
had rolled away she had gone far ahead of their expectations. 


BONNY JEAN 


101 


It was decided that she should appear before the public for 
her debut as the heroine in the modern draipa of the Hidden 
Hand,” quite a difficult character for a debutante to essay, but 
Lady was quite up to the mark. 

She insisted upon being billed as “ Lady Lee,” and her friends 
submitted to her wishes. And so, the night of her first ap- 
pearance on the boards arrived, and flaming posters all over the 
city announced in flaring characters the first appearance of the 
sprightly young comedienne, Lady Lee, and behind the curtain 
Lady herself, in a fever of excitement, awaited her call. 

It came at last, and the first act passed off very creditably, 
Lady “ bringing the house down” more than once. 

The play progressed, and the audience seemed spell-bound. It 
was the scene with the outlaw, where the heroine of the drama 
is about to propel the robber chief through a trap in the floor 
to regions below, when suddenly Lady happened to raise her 
eyes, and they fell upon a face in a stage-box near her. 
Trembling like an aspen, she tottered and fell upon the stage 
like one bereft of life. 


CHAPTER XXIL 

FOUND ! 

Philip Randall crept softly on toward the spot where Gabriel 
Black had begun diligently to excavate. Then a sudden thought 
struck him, and he paused in the shelter of a pine thicket, 
leaning on the rifle, his eyes meantime watching the movements 
of the villain. Spadeful after spadeful of earth was dug up and 
tossed aside. Black worked faithfully ; the perspiration streamed 
down his pallid face ; with hands trembling from the unusual 
exertion, he paused to mop the perspiration from his brow, 
and then stooped over the hole in the ground, and resumed his 
work with feverish excitement, his whole soul absorbed in the 
task before him. As yet, he had not been interrupted, as on 


102 


BONNY JEAN. 


previous occasions ; and already his evil eyes began to glow with 
avarice as he dug lower and lower, and finally had the satisfac- 
tion of feeling his spade strike against something with a dull 
thud. 

With a muffled exclamation of delight, he redoubled his 
efforts, already prodigious, and went on with a will. On — on 
— he struck the spade into the ground once more — and again — 
and all the time the eager eyes of his hated enemy and rival 
were upon him, full of deadly hatred ; only waiting — biding his 
time — to see what the end would be. 

“It is well !” muttered Philip to himself, “to let the villain 
unearth the treasure which belongs, by right, to Jean and her 
mother. Since he has been the cause of all their privation and 
suffering, his hands shall be the means of restoring to them their 
rightful heritage.” 

So Philip stood and watched him, and Black, utterly ignorant 
of the truth, worked away. 

All at once there came a deafening report; earth and sky 
alike were darkened, and with a wild shriek of agony, Gabriel 
Black gave a leap into the air, and fell upon the ground. 

When the smoke had cleared away, Philip drew near the dis- 
comfited villain. He lay still and half senseless. Philip pro- 
cured some water from a little “ branch” near by, and threw it 
into his face. He did not desire that the wretch should perish, 
until he had had it out with him. 

At length Black opened his eyes and stared about him. It 
was early dawn now, and the two men glared in each other’s 
faces. 

‘ ‘ Keep back !” shrieked Black, as his eyes met those of Philip ; 
“you are Phil Randall’s ghost!” 

Philip spurned the fallen wretch with his foot. 

“I would have been a ghost now, Gabriel Black,” he said, 
coolly, “if you had had your way; but, you see, - ‘ the wicked 
shall not always prosper,’ and God helped me !” 

Black lifted one hand, and passed it slowly over his eyes. 


BONNY JEAN 


103 


“It IS Phil Randall !” he muttered — “Phil Randall, alive T 

“To be sure I’m alive !” cried Philip ; “and now let me ask 
you a question : What are you doing here ?” 

Black turned his face away ; he could not meet the look in 
the eyes of the man whom he had so fearfully wronged! 

“Tell me — or I shall kill you !” cried Philip, raising his rifle 
as he spoke. 

“You would not shoot a man when he is down ?” cried Black, 
in horrified alarm. 

“What hurt you?” queried Philip, with a gesture of con- 
tempt. 

. “ I — I was digging yonder,” groaned Black. “ I had a little 
business, you see ” 

“Yes, I know !” interpolated Philip, grimly ; “you were rob- 
bing the widow and orphan ! Go on ! What hurt you ?” 

Black winced a little. 

“ Well, I was only taking what is my own !” he said, harshly. 
“Jean Conway is my wife, you know !” 

Philip sprang forward, as though he would strangle the fallen 
wretch ; then he hesitated, and drew back. 

“Go on ! ” he commanded. 

“It was — something in the pit yonder!” explained Black. 
“An infernal machine, I reckon I I know I’m hit in the leg. 
I — I think I shall die with the pain !” 

“Oh, no!” responded Philip, sardonically; “you will not 
die from that ! Black, you were born for a higher fate !” 

Black shuddered, but attempted no reply. 

And Philip proceeded to examine the aperture, to discover 
the cause of the strange explosion. He found a small box, in- 
geniously constructed, and filled with explosive material so 
arranged that a sudden blow upon it had caused it to explode ; 
but, fortunately for the villain, the blow struck by his spade had 
not been forcible enough to kill him, though it had wounded 
and disabled him. 

When the fragments of the box had been carefully removed, 


104 


BONKY JEAN. 


Philip leaned the rifle against a tree, where it would be within 
easy reach, and, taking the spade, began to dig. He worked 
away like a giant for nearly an hour. He was fearfully weak, 
and his form trembled with fatigue and excitement. But at last 
his spade also struck something, and this time there was no re- 
port or explosion. 

Breathlessly, Philip stood over the aperture, and peered within. 
Black lay near, watching him with eyes full of fiendish hatred, 
but not daring to utter a word. 

Philip knelt upon the ground, and gazed long and earnestly 
into the pit. What he saw caused the blood to rush into his 
pale face, and he trembled violently ; for he could distinguish 
plainly the outline of a box — a heavy-looking, iron-bound chest. 
Philip sank upon the ground to collect his thoughts and decide 
upon a course of action. 


CHAPTER XXHI. 

WHAT LADY DID. 

The face which Lady Lee had beheld, gazing upon her with 
a look of incredulous wonder and amazement from the stage- 
box, was the face of John Averill. He had come down to New 
Orleans to purchase supplies for his plantation, and had been 
confronted everywhere on the streets of the city with the gay 
posters which announced the first appearance of some actress 
who bore the name of his lost love ; and, half-stupefied at the 
strange coincidence, he decided to attend the theater that night, 
and see this actress for himself. And — wonder of wonders ! — 
he had been confronted by Lady ; no use to deny it, or to try to 
hide from himself the strange, incredulous truth. There she 
was, before his eyes ; not dead — not lying under the lilies and 
daisies, in the pretty green nook, where that little grave was 
made ; but — here — on the stage, amid the bright lights — in her 
pretty costume — her saucy, piquant face wreathed with smiles — 


BONNY JEAN. 


105 


smiling into the faces of her audience, with the same old charm 
of manner which had always been so irresistible in Lady Lee. 

Half demented, John sat silent, and watched her. He had 
eyes for no one else on the stage. He knew nothing concern- 
ing the play ; he only gazed at Lady, until the magnetism of his 
gaze must have attracted her, for she turned suddenly, saw him, 
and fell to the floor in a dead faint. 

She was carried behind the scenes, and soon restored to con- 
sciousness. 

The perplexed manager came before the curtain with an hum- 
ble apology ; but Lady, once herself again, insisted on going on 
with the play ; and she did — to the very end. 

But when the curtain had fallen upon the last act, and, lit- 
erally covered with floral tributes, the young actress had sought 
the privacy of her own dressing-room, all her enforced calmness 
gave way, and she bowed her head, and wept tears of bitter 
agony. 

There was a rap at the door of the room, and Lillian Lester 
appeared. 

“Why, Lady dear, what is the matter?” she cried, aghast 
at the sight of Adelaide in tears ; “one would think that you 
had made a positive failure, instead of being quoted as the 
grand success of the season ! Manager Horton is waiting out- 
side with a splendid engagement to offer you ! Lady, dear, 
you are bound to become famous ! And Harry — oh ! he is so 
proud of you 1 Come, Lady, don’t cry — whatever is the 
matter ?” 

Another rap at the door precluded any explanation, and 
some one brought a card, with a request for admission. Lady 
glanced at the card ; her heart told her, before her eyes had 
fallen upon it, who was coming. Yes — John Averill I That 
was the name. 

Lady pressed the senseless bit of pasteboard to her lips. She 
could not refuse him an audience ; and in a moment more he 
was standing before her— just the same cool, quiet John as ever. 


106 


BONNY JEAN 


Lady !” he said, with a strange intonation in his low, deep 
voice. My God ! what is the meaning of this ? We all have 
mourned you as dead \” 

She caught both his hands in hers. 

“Oh, John! John T' she sobbed; “it is so strange — so 
wonderful ! Sit down, and let me tell you all about it !” 

And she did. From first to last her romantic story was 
told ; and, as she proceeded with her narrative, John’s face 
grew deadly white ; he clenched his hands hard, and set his 
teeth, with a muttered imprecation. But when she (deter- 
mined that he should know all) revealed to him — as she 
knew that she was in honor bound to do — her engagement 
to Harry Lester, he bowed his head upon his clasped hands, 
and uttered never a word. 

When she had finished, he arose. His face was white as 
a dead man’s — stern, and set, and joyless ; one would say, 
looking upon it, that it would never know a smile again. 

“Good-by !” he said, holding out his hand. 

“Good-by?” queried Lady, in wondering surprise. “Why 
— why — are you not going to take me home ?” 

He gave her a strange, startled look. 

“Your parents are in Europe, Miss Adelaide,” he said, 
quietly. 

Lady’s face flushed. She had forgotten the sad truth, that 
she was homeless and alone. 

“Good-by I” she said, softly. “You have not — not changed 
to me, Mr. Averill ?” 

It was a strange, unexpected question, and the girl’s dark 
eyes wore a wistful expression. He answered her with a 
glance of tenderness ; his stern mouth quivered, but he was 
like adamant. He wrung her little hand, passed through the 
door, and was gone ! 

There was an expression of determination on the girl’s face, 
as she stood there, alone in the room ; then, going to the door, 
she sent a messenger for Harry Lester. He came at once ; she 


Bomr JEAN. 


107 


motioned him to be seated, and a long conference followed. 

When Harry left the room an hout later, his face was set and 
white, and he trembled, and walked with unsteady steps, like a 
drunkard ; but in his eyes there shone the light of a noble re- 
solve. He called Lillian, and as soon as Lady was ready he ac- 
companied them home. 

The next morning Manager Horton received a line from the 
new “star,” declining all further connection with the theater; 
she had decided to relinquish the theatrical profession. There 
was a twinkle in the keen gray eye of the worthy manager, 
which strove with disappointment for the mastery. 

“Going to retire from the stage !” he soliloquized. “They 
never retire but for one object. Of course, she and Lester will 
make a match of it, and there’s an end to all my hopes !” 

But Lady was not thinking of Harry Lester, at least not in 
connection with a matrimonial debut. She had sent a line to 
John Averill, begging him to call upon her that morning before 
he should leave the city for his home. White and worn with a 
night’s weary vigil, John came, wondering greatly what her er- 
rand could be. She laid her hand in his, and looked into his 
honest eyes. 

“John,” she said, softly, “you used to care for me, didn’t 
you ?” 

“Stop!” he cried, harshly. “I cannot endure to see you 
exult in my misery. Oh, Lady ! you used to have a kinder 
heart !” 

“John,” she went on, quietly, ignoring his interruption, “I 
see that you have not changed ; you love me, do you not 

The look which he gave her spoke volumes, and with a blush- 
ing face she went on : 

“And — so — John — I have sent for you to tell you — that — if 
you still want me, I will be your wife I Will you take me, 
John, ‘ for better, for worse ?’ ” 

He sprang to his feet, and grasped her slender wrist. 

“Lady! Ladyl” he groaned, “are you playing an unwo- 


108 


Bomr JEAK. 


manly trick upon me? And — you — engaged to Harry Lester?* 
I was," returned Lady ; ‘ ‘ but — but — I am not now 1 I will 
be engaged to you, if you like !" 

For when Harry Lester had heard all, and learned the true 
state of affairs, his noble heart would not stand in the way of 
the happiness of the woman whom he loved, so he had released 
Lady, and had given her back her freedom. 

And Lady and John were betrothed at last. She bad loved 
him all the time ; but she would not admit the truth yet. John, 
Jn the fullness of his happiness, could not refrain from saying, 
as he gazed into the girl's dark, loving eyes : 

“Didn’t I tell you. Lady, that the next time the subject of 
marriage should be mentioned between us, it would be you^ and 
not I, who would ’’ 

“ Oh ! nonsense, John !" 

And she held up her red lips to be kissed. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

FINIS. 

Philip sat down beside the open tomb, where the iron chest 
had been buried, to collect his scattered senses. For Philip 
was a practical, matter-of-fact sort of a young man — and all the 
time since old David Conway’s death, he had entertained some 
doubts of the wild tale to which he had listened. Not that he 
doubted Conway, who was the very soul of honor — and a man 
is not apt to invent a deliberate falsehood on his death-bed, with 
the grim messenger staring him in the face— but the whole tale 
had sounded so wild and improbable, that Philip almost believed 
it to have been the offspring of a wandering brain. But now 
he had proved the truth of a portion of the story, at least ; for 
here before his eyes, hidden away under the surface of the earth, 
was the palpable fact — the iron chest. He saw at a glance that 


BONNY JEAN. 


109 


his strength was inadequate to stir the ponderous thing ; for, al- 
though not very large, it was plainly too heavy to think of get- 
ting it up to terra firma without assistance. So he seated him- 
self to rest from his arduous labor, and hoping that some one 
would pass that way who might lend a helping hand. At last 
some one did come, and who in the world should it be but 
John Averill ! He leaped from his horse, and caught Philip’s 
hand. 

“Great Heaven!” he cried, “A it really you, Randall — 
alive ?” 

‘ ‘ Alive 1” repeated Philip, gravely, ‘ ‘ and ready for vengeance!” 

John’s eyes followed the quick glance of Philip’s, and his 
own blazed as they fell upon the prostrate form of Gabriel Black 
lying on the ground. He sprang forward and caught the villain 
by the throat. 

“At last !” he groaned, between his set teeth. 

“Wait, John!” 

Philip’s hand was on his own to stay him in his mad work. 

“Wait,” repeated Philip. “I have something to tell you 
first.” 

They seated themselves, and the story was soon told. John 
related his own experience in New Orleans, and how he had 
left Lady there with the Lesters until he could return and pre- 
pare everything for her coming home. He had already cabled 
to Europe, begging Mr. and Mrs. Lee to come home ; that 
something wonderful and extraordinary had occurred, and thus 
endeavored to prepare them for the reception of the wonderful 
truth ; for he feared the effect of a sudden disclosure upon Mrs. 
Lee, who was quite feeble. 

“And now,” said' John, in conclusion, “what do you in- 
tend to do with that creature ?” and he indicated Black. 

“ Come and help me first,” was Philip’s reply, “and after 
that we will know what to do.” 

So the two young men went to work with a will, and by the 
aid of John’s bridle, which they contrived to fasten to the 


110 


BONNY JEAN. 


handles of the old chest, they succeeded in lifting it from the 
grave, where it had so long lain buried. 

“Quite a resurrection !’’ laughed John, as the chest was de- 
posited upon the ground. “ And now, what next?" 

“Can you procure a conveyance any place near here?" 
queried Philip; “for, if you can, we will take our de- 
parture.” 

John hurried away, leaving Philip to guard the treasure 
and the prisoner, who lay audibly cursing his own folly. In 
a half-hour John returned with, an ox team and wagon ; the 
chest was deposited within it, and Gabriel Black, groaning 
and cursing — since resistance was useless — was lifted into the 
wagon also. Philip and John sprang in, and they drove off. 

“Which way, Philip?” asked John, as the wagon rattled 
along. 

“To the old Red Tavern !” replied Philip. “I have my 
own opinion of that den, and Pm going to attend to it the 
first thing on my list of old scores. ” 

They proceeded at a tolerable pace, and reached the den 
of iniquity before noon. It chanced that a large number of 
the pine woods people had gathered there — some on busi- 
ness, for the old tavern, “kept store” also; others had dropped 
in for their daily dose of “tanglefoot;” there was a goodly 
crowd upon the long, low gallery, as the ox-team passed 
before the house, and it was safe to presume that most of 
them were vigilantes. John and Philip alighted leisurely and 
advanced toward the host. Old Bill Corney took his pipe 
from his mouth, while his blear eyes stared at Philip in blank 
amazement. 

“Yes, Mr. Corney,” said Philip, with a mock obeisance, 
“I am alive ! You would hardly believe it now, would 
you ? And — do you know — can you imagine what I am here 
for to-day ?” 

There was no response. The other men crowded around, 
and some significant glances were exchanged. 


BONNY JEAN 


111 


''I am hereT' continued Philip, ‘'to shoot down every 
vigilante among you !” 

The effect of this announcement was electrical, and had the 
result that Philip had anticipated. By the general stampede, 
he knew, beyond a doubt, that every man there belonged to 
the brotherhood. 

“Hold on!”. cried Philip, sternly, seizing Black’s rifle, and 
pointing it full at old Corney. “ Flight will not save you ! I 
know you now, and every man of you will be arrested before 
this week is out ! There is some law in Louisiana, if it hasn’t 
reached the pine woods !” 

At that instant old Corney’s ferret-like eyes fell upon Black 
in the bottom of the wagon. His red face paled. 

“By Jingo, boys, the cap’n !” he ejaculated. 

“Hold your tongue!” growled Black. “How dare you 
attempt to betray me.?” 

“Your connection with the gang of cut-throats known as 
the ‘Pine Woods Vigilantes,’” said Philip, scornfully, “is 
already known, Gabriel Black ! But ” 

“ Hang him up to the nearest pine tree!” cried a hoarse 
voice amid the crowd. “ He put us up to it !” 

“Your advice is very good, Cooper,” remarked Philip, qui- 
etly ; “and when we are done with him, we will try our hands 
on you/ The partaker is as bad as the thief, you know !” 

The man shrank away, like all of his sort, a coward. 

Philip approached Gabriel Black. 

“Look here!” he said, sternly. “I demand that you tell 
me what you have done with Jean Conway and her mother. If 
you will do so peaceably, I will agree that no personal violence 
shall be done you. I will have you sent to the parish prison to 
await your trial But refuse to reveal the place where you have 
hidden those two friendless women whom you have persecuted, 
and ” 

He paused. 

** What will you do ?” cried Black, anxiously. 


112 


BONNY JEAN 


will deliver you over to the tender mercies of those men 
whose captain you were, and let them string you up to the forked 
pine yonder Y 

— I — riltell you anything!” groaned Black, trembling 
like an aspen. “ I couldn’t stand that T 

Philip smiled grimly. 

*‘No; I suppose not,” he said. You are a coward to the 
very core, Gabriel Black I Well, go ahead, and make haste 
about it ? Where are they ?” 

As Philip spoke, he chanced to raise his eyes. They fell upon 
a window in the rear of the old tavern, ahd he saw, pressed 
against the dingy pane, a pallid, wistful face, framed in by golden 
hair. With a low cry, he sprang forward and touched John 
Averill’s shoulder. 

‘‘Stay here, John !” he panted, “and keep your eye on the 
iron chest and on this devil ! I — I — oh. Heaven ! Jean is up 
yonder I” 

He dashed forward and entered the house. Old Corney’s 
burly form barred his progress ; but, with a well-directed blow, 
Philip laid him senseless and dashed on. Up a short flight of 
narrow stairs he flew, and paused at length before a stout door. 

“Jean 1 Jean I” he cried, wildly, “I am here !” 

His voice penetrated the thick walls, and Jean answered, de- 
spite the fact that Mrs. Corney was holding her in both arms, 
endeavoring to stifle her cries. Philip struck the door a thun- 
dering blow. 

“ Open 1” he cried. 

Mrs, Conway seemed endowed with sudden strength and reso- 
lution. Mild, and yielding, and passive as she was under or- 
dinary circumstances, she became a very lioness when aroused. 
She sprang upon Mrs. Corney, and while she held the woman’s 
brawny arms with all her strength, Jean plunged her hand into 
that lady’s capacious pocket and extracted the key. A moment 
more the door was open, and Jean was in Philip’s arms. For 


SONNY JEAN. 


113 


a while they stood in a very trance of joy ; then she drew her- 
self away. 

‘‘What is the matter, my darling?” cried Philip, in alarm. 

“You — you are married, are you, Philip?” 

“Married, indeed ! No, I am not married, Jean !” 

“But sjke is I” shrieked Mrs. Corney, recovering her breath 
and speech at the same time. 

An awful horror fell upon Jean, blotting out all her joy. She 
sat down and buried her face in her hands. But Philip took 
her hand and led her down and out of the house, Mrs. Conway 
following closely. Once outside, they found quite a spirited 
scene taking place. 

Gabriel Black lay upon the ground, pallid, half-frightened to 
death, and a woman was stooping over him with a revolver 
pointed at his heart. 

“What does all this mean ?” cried Philip, “This man is my 
prisoner !” 

The woman raised her head, and disclosed a pale, pretty face, 
but all lined with sorrow and suffering. 

“ I am Gabriel Black’s wife !” she said, slowly and distinctly. 
“ My name is Mariette Black. He married me in St. Landry 
parish, ten years ago, and then deserted me. The marriage 
with Miss Conway was, of course, illegal, for I was living ; yes, 
I have lived when other women would have died ; lived to hunt 
him down. It was I who frightened him, knowing his cow- 
ardly nature ; it was I who conveyed the warnings, and I who 
attempted to aid Miss Conway and her mother to escape from 
his toils. And now that the day of retribution has come, I 
claim the right to punish him. I shall take his miserable life !” 

She paused, and all eyes were turned upon the villain. Over 
his pale face a grayish hue had settled ; his eyes were open and 
staring straight before him. He was dead ; had actually died 
of fright. 

:|£ ♦ * ♦ ♦ ♦ * 

Jean and Philip were married at once. Philip purchased 


114 


BONNY JEAN. 


John Averiirs old place, and there he and his bride, with her 
mother, took up their abode, while John and his wife, with the 
old folks, who had nearly died of joy at finding their loved one 
still spared to them, all dwell at the Lee Place. 

The iron chest being opened, was found to contain a large 
sum of money in Spanish doubloons, and a casket of jewels, 
which were priceless. Very wealthy were Jean and her mother 
now, and they lavished their money in good and charitable 
actions. A large sum was expended in ridding the country of 
the terrible vigilantes. The band was broken up, the ringlead- 
ers punished, the old Red Tavern pulled down, and its timbers 
burned ; and the very name of vigilantes is no longer heard in 
the green and pleasant pine woods. Only to this day, some- 
times, an aged dame (whose grandfather, perchance, belonged 
to the same organization), will frighten her grandchildren with 
wonderful tales of wild exploits committed by the pine woods 
vigilantes, and the wildest tale does not exceed the truth. 

Some time in the untried future, when the strong arm of the 
law shall reach that lonely region, and “ the wheat be divided 
from the tares,” there will be no more desirable dwelling-place 
for those who love quiet, green fields and “ pastures new,” than 
the fair southern pine woods. 

And there they live, those whose fortunes we have followed — 
happy, loving, and beloved, reaping the reward of good deeds 
and noble actions ; glad of the possession of the golden treasure, 
but conscious still that the love which has blessed their lives is 
of far more value than gold. 


[the end.] 


A SEVERE THREAT 


CHAPTER I. 

*‘l WILL SAVE you!" 

believe I have lost my way !" 

Howard Ashleigh paused irresolutely upon the road-side, 
and gazed about with bewildered eyes. A lonely stretch of 
forest, lying hushed and still under an English sky, a few miles 
outside a quaint old English town. Over in the west great dun- 
colored clouds piled one above the other, with a dull crimson 
streak piercing their hearts, like a fiery lance. Indescribably 
lonely, the scene, with the moaning and sighing through the 
tree-tops, foretelling a coming storm. 

“Here I am ‘afoot and alone,’" mused the young man. 
“ Heaven knows how many miles from Waltham, where I must 
take the train for London. Ah I" he added, eagerly, glancing 
about him, “this ts fortunate ! There must be a human habi- 
tation near." For he had caught a glimpse of a high brick 
wall, frowning and gloomy, evidently inclosing an expanse of 
an ill-kept, neglected garden. 

As he stands there let me describe hime. A slender, grace- 
ful man, a proud, dark face, gray eyes, full of slumberous fire, 
clear-cut features, wavy, dark hair, and a heavy, black mustache 
shading the short, haughty upper lip. An American by birth 
was Howard Ashleigh ; by profession a civil engineer. 

“That stupid innkeeper," he went on, impatiently, as he hur- 
ried toward the dilapidated gate which his quick glance had 


lie 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


discerned, '^told me to keep to the right, and in two hours I 
would reach Waltham. The right was evidently the wrong in 
this instance. Well, Til seek shelter here for to-night; it is 
getting late, and I don’t like the looks of the sky over in the 
west yonder. It is going to storm, or I’m mistaken. I’ll beg 
these people to keep me until morning, and then I’ll be off for 
London and sweet Geraldine Vernon. What would she say, 
I wonder, if she knew that I have worn her picture over my 
heart for three long years! Beautiful Geraldine — ‘my lady 

Geraldine ’ we used to call her, in those old days of the past. ” 
He had the gate open by this time, and was hurrying up the 
long avenue, neglected and strewn with dead leaves, toward the 
building which loomed in the background. A great, gray, 
ruinous pile, covered with clambering ivy, and with decay and 
desolation stamped plainly upon it. He hesitated a moment, 
and his eyes wandered over the front of the gloomy old mansion. 
“Looks deserted,” he muttered; “but no, there is smoke 

issuing from the chimney, and ” 

He paused abruptly, and a look of incredulous wonder 
dawned in his eyes. For peering at him from an upper win- 
dow, plainly discernible, was a woman’s face — a beautiful face, 
with a cloud of tangled golden hair falling over graceful 
shoulders. Only an instant, and then the vision vanished. 
The young man stood as though riveted to the spot, his gaze 
fixed upon that closed window ; one hand sought his breast and 
touched the portrait hidden there. 

“Impossible I” he muttered, incredulously, “quite impossi- 
ble ; and yet — my God 1 how like her it is !” 

He was recalled to his senses by a sharp lightning flash, fol- 
lowed by the low rumbling of sullen thunder in the distance. 
He ascended the steps of the broad veranda and rapped loudly 
at the great weather-stained door. 

A long pause intervened, broken only by the roll of thunder, 
nearer now, while sharp streaks of lightning began to come and 
go in the black sky. Then the sound of shuffling footsteps 


A SSJVUJm THREAT. 


117 


within, followed by a rattling of bolts and chains (the house 
was evidently well secured), the great door swung slowly open, 
and the young man saw before him an immense wainscoted 
hall, and confronting him on the threshold a hideous old 
woman, sullen and wrinkled. She drew back in undisguised 
alarm as her eyes fell upon the stranger. 

“I thought it was the master!’' she muttered, making a 
movement to close the door in the young man’s face. 

He lifted his hat. 

“I have lost my way,” he began, in his frank, straight- 
forward manner ; night is coming down, and there is a storm 
brewing ; can I obtain shelter here for the night 

The old crone’s ugly face grew harsher. 

“No, you can’t!” she answered, shortly. “My orders is, 
admit no one ! So, young man, you can just tramp on again ; 
it ain’t but five miles from here to Waltham, after you leave this 
gate, and you’ll soon ” 

“ He shall stay !” 

The old woman started, with a suppressed groan, and How- 
ard Ashleigh turned in astonishment, to see an unexpected 
apparition. Down the long, carved, oaken staircase, slippery 
as glass, which wound its sinuous way up from the center of 
the great, black entrance-hall, glided the slim, graceful figure 
of a girl — the face which he had seen at the window above ; 
and again the conviction stole over him that her face was like 
the pictured one which lay upon his breast. A pale, little face, 
with great black eyes, the cloud of yellow hair contrasting 
strangely with their lustrous darkness ; and upon every feature 
the traces of pride, passion, and impatience plainly visible. He 
bowed with courteous grace. 

*‘I should esteem it a great favor,” he said, “but I have no 
desire to intrude or inconvenience.” 

“Come in!” she interrupted. “It is going to rain. We 
have fearful storms here sometimes. Judith, lead the way.” 

And she turned to the old woman, who was standing in 


118 


A SHVMS tbheat. 


dogged silence, her bleared, angry eyes upon the young man's 
handsome face. 

“Miss Geraldine \" she expostulated, in a tone of half com- 
mand, half entreaty, “your father will kill you if you admit 
this — this — stranger. ” 

The girl’s haughty little head was crested proudly, and her 
eyes flashed with superb disdain. 

“ Do as I bid you !” she commanded ; then, in a significant 
tone, she added, “ the door is open; you could not prevent 
me if I chose to leave, and who would suffer then, you or I ?” 

Old Edith shrugged her shoulders, but made no reply, while 
Howard Ashleigh stood waiting for this strange scene to 
terminate. 

“ Come in, sir,” repeated the girl. “You are quite welcome 
to such poor hospitality as we can proffer you.” 

She paused, and a sudden gleam lit up her small, pale face ; 
then added, ere he could frame an answer : 

“I see that you have forgotten me; but I remember you 
well, Mr. Ashleigh.” 

He started, as with an electric shock. 

“Good heavens!” he ejaculated, in amazement, “then I 
was not mistaken. It is really Miss Vernon 1” 

“Lloyd Vernon’s sister,” the girl returned, calmly. “I 
recognized you immediately, Mr. Ashleigh, although it is three 
years since we have met. ” 

She held out her hand as she spoke — a slim, white hand, upon 
which gleamed a great, uncanny opal. Howard Ashleigh 
pressed it warmly, while old Judith glowered upon them with 
eyes full of sullen defiance. 

“I never thought to find you here I” he said, in a tone of 
deep surprise, as he followed his young hostess into the great, 
bare hall, showing its hundred years in the decay, neglect, ruin, 
which stared him in the face. She threw open a door on the 
left, disclosing an immensely gloomy apartment, ill-furnished, 
but with a cheerful wood fire blazing and crackling in the 


A SBVEBE TIIBEAT. 


119 


yawning cavern of a fire-place, redeeming the room from utter 
discomfort. 

Geraldine Vernon leaned against the broad, black marble 
mantel, and her dark eyes sought Howard Ashleigh’s face. 

“ I knew you at once,” she repeated, ignoring his former re- 
mark. “Lloyd has written so much about you since you were 
with us, three years ago, and he sent me your picture. I have 
it here.” 

And, with a pretty blush, she turned to a small carved ebony 
bracket, upon which stood a cabinet photograph of the young 
man, surprisingly life-like. 

“It is your second self, you see,” she went on, with timid 
grace ; “and Lloyd wrote me that you had left him and gone 
to England on business. I am proud to think that my brother, 
reared as he has been, has the energy to go forth in the world 
to make a place for himself; but it is dreadful to be parted 
from him.” 

She paused, and suddenly bowing her head upon the mantel, 
burst into a flood of bitter tears. 

Astonished and alarmed, Howard hastened to her side. 

“Geraldine — Miss Vernon!” he cried: “what is the mat- 
ter ? Why are you here in this isolated place ? Can I help 
you ?” 

She raised her tear-stained face, and the shining drops dried 
quickly in her beautiful eyes. 

“No,” she answered coldly; “no one can help me. You 
must think me very strange,” she added, quietly, “but I could 
control myself no longer. Mr. Ashleigh, you are my brother s 
friend. I will tell you all. I am a prisoner here! The win- 
dows of this house are all nailed fast on the outside ; the outer 
doors are always locked, and old Judith carries the keys. I 
have been shut up in this dreary place for nearly a year. ” 

“ Great heavens !” 

She checked him with an imperious gesture. 

“My brother does not know, of course,” she went on 


120 


A SUVEHB THREAT. 


quickly. ** His letters are addressed to our house in London, 
where he believes me to be ; they are forwarded to me at this 
place, and mine to him are read, revised, and mailed to him 
from London. Far away in America, he does not dream that 
his only sister — his motherless sister — is the victim of a father’s 
cruelty. ” 

‘‘Miss Vernon !” 

“It is a matter of resistance. Let me explain. My father 
swears that I shall marry a certain nobleman, Sir John Sydney 
by name, and /swear that I will die first. It is the clashing of 
two strong wills, you see,” and she smiled bitterly, but it was 
like a gleam of wintry sunshine on her small, pale face. “ Mr. 
Ashleigh, I hate that man,” she went on, panting and breath- 
less, her eyes shining ; “I hate' Sir John Sydney — hate him — 
HATE him ! I would die a thousand deaths before I would 
consent to marry him, mean, cruel, relentless tyrant that he is ! 
I am only eighteen,” she went on, wringing her white hands 
piteously, “and he is past fifty! Yet my father determined 
that I should be Lady Sydney, and finding that I would not con- 
sent, has made me a prisoner here ; and here I am to remain, 
he says, until I come to my senses. I shall be a very old woman 
when that day dawns,” she added, bitterly, “if to be sensible 
means to marry Sir John Sydney.” 

Her beautiful eyes flashed proudly ; her pale face wore a 
crimson spot on either delicate cheek ; her slender form was 
drawn up erect and haughty ; and the two white hands were up- 
lifted with a tragic gesture worthy of Rachel. 

Howard Ashleigh gazed upon her beautiful face with his heart 
in his eyes. All the fervor and passion of his Southern nature 
was a-thrill at sight of this beautiful girl, so hardly dealt with, 
and he longed to tell her the truth — how he had come from a 
distant home with a hope dawning in his breast to win her for 
his wife. That strange incipient madness called love had grown 
up in his heart like some rare tropical plant, in the long years 
which had passed since they had met. Many a night, when he 


A SJEVFBJS THREAT. 


121 


and Lloyd Vernon had lain out under the twinkling stars; com- 
rades together, sharing the same tent, in their rough life en- 
gineering amid wild scenes, they had spoken of her ; for, far 
away in America, Vernon dreamed not of all that was transpir- 
ing at home ; and it was the dearest wish of his heart that 
Howard Ashleigh should win his sister’s affection. 

The recollection of the hopes which had come to Ashleigh 
overpowered him now. He caught the girl’s two hands in his 
and bent his handsome head to gaze into her slumberous eyes. 
Old Judith had slipped away from the room, and they were 
alone. 

‘ ‘ Geraldine, ” he panted, breathlessly, ' ‘ I will save you from 
the fate before you, if you will let me ! I have never forgotten 
you ; I have always loved you ! See ! I have worn this above 
my heart since last we met !” 

He drew forth a diamond-studded locket, and opening it, dis- 
closed to Geraldine her own face. She averted her head to hide 
the crimson blushes, and she trembled visibly. 

“Speak, darling !” he implored. “Tell me that you forgive 
my presumption ; for, oh, Geraldine, I love you so ! And I 
will save you from the fate that awaits you, if you will only con- 
sent.” 

“ How ?” she faltered. 

“ Marry me at once !” he went on, eagerly. “Give me the 
right to defend you, and no one can ever harm you again. I 
am not rich — that is true — but once my wife, and away in our 
own free land, where there is room for every man of energy and 
perseverance, you shall be cared for. If you consent, my dar- 
ling,” he went on, quickly, “we will go over to Scotland, and 
be married immediately. They dispense with all senseless for- 
mality there. I would not counsel you against your father’s 
wishes ; but the necessity of the case demands stringent meas- 
ures. Tell me, Geraldine— can you care for me ?” 

The golden head drooped against his shoulder. 

“I care I” she said, shyly. “We have both learned to 


122 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


care, it seems, though we have been parted so long I I trust 
you, Howard, implicitly. Let it be as you will.'" 

The last words were very faint ; but they reached the lover's 
ears. He caught her in his arms, and kissed the sweet, red lips. 

God bless you !” he murmured, fervently. 

Suddenly, upon the silence there came the rumble of carriage 
wheels, and a bustle in the hall without ; then the sound of a 
loud, imperious voice, in a tone of command. 

Geraldine sprang from her lover's embrace, and clasping her 
hands, gazed into his face with her dark eyes full of despair. 

^‘God help me!" she moaned. “My father has come. 
What shall I do ? Oh 1 what shall I do 

There was the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall. Ger- 
aldine seized Howard's hand and led him away to the farthest 
end of the immense room, lighted only by the firelight. 

“ Stay here," she whispered ; “and no matter what you hear, 
don't betray yourself. He may not see you, and it is your only 
chance, if you would help me to escape. ” 

There was a tall, old-fashioned cabinet in the gloomy corner. 
Howard stepped into its shadow, and prepared for what was to 
come ; and Geraldine Vernon, pale and resolute, paused before 
the door of the room, to face her angry father. 


CHAPTER H. 

HIS WIFE. 

“Geraldine !" 

The cameo:like face flushed for an instant, and then grew 
pale as death again, as a tall, haughty old man strode into the 
room, and confronted her. His face, very like her own, was 
deadly pale, his eyes stern. 

“Well, sir!” she returned. 

“What is this ?" he demanded, fiercely. “ Old Judith tells 


A SJSVFBE TUBFAT. 


123 


me that a stranger has been admitted here ! How c/are you 
disobey my express commands, and fraternize with the first 
tramp that happens to stroll this way ? A good thing for him, 
whoever he may be, that he has taken himself off. ” 

She flashed her proud eyes upon his harsh face. 

And, how dare j^ou make a prisoner of your own daugh- 
ter?" she cried, haughtily. “Lionel Vernon, if you think to 
bend my will to your purpose, you are only wasting time. 
I am a Vernon, and the Vernons are not easy to conquer or 
coerce. We are said to be a proud race ; and I h^ve never 
heard of dishonor attached to our name — until now !" 

He started angrily. 

“Do you mean me?" he cried. 

She met his gaze with eyes that never flinched. 

“1 mean you!” she returned, slowly. “Father, do you see 
no dishonor in this thing that you would have me to do ? This 
marriage, for the sake of wealth and position — and " 

He checked her with an angry gesture. 

“Stop !" he commanded, sternly. “Since you are so inso- 
lent, I will spare you no longer. I have mercifully concealed 
from you the real reason why this marriage must take place. 
There is a secret in our family, Geraldine — a guilty secret. It 
is in the hands of Sir John Sydney. If you consent to marry 
him, you will be Lady Sydney, with limitless wealth at your 
command ; but, if you refuse " — he gazed comprehensively into 
the girl’s white, drawn face — “you bring ruin upon your o\^n 
name. Sir John has agreed to save us from ignominy and last- 
ing disgrace — he has promised to do it, the price being your 
hand in marriage." 

“ A fearful price !" she panted. “Father," — she folded her 
arms upon her breast, and confronted him, her face like marble, 
her eyes shining like stars — “he who sins must pay the penalty. 
I ask not who is the criminal, or what his crime ; I only know 
that the innocent should not always suffer for the guilty, and I 


124 


A SEVEBE THBEAT. 


decline to pay the part of ‘scapegoat’ for the Vernon race. Let 
Sir John Sydney do his worst ; I will never, never be his wife !” 

Lionel Vernon advanced toward his daughter, his face livid 
with rage. For a moment he seemed tempted to strike her 
down at his feet. He lifted one hand ; then it fell at his side ; 
and he turned toward the door ; then he paused. 

“ Go to your own room !” he hissed, wrathfully, “and do 
not let me see your face until morning. When to-morrow 
dawns you leave here with me. I will take you to London, 
and you shall be Lady Sydney within four-and-twenty hours.” 

He strode from the apartment, too angry to glance back, and 
left his daughter pale and trembling — alone. Quick as a flash 
she darted to the corner, where Howard Ashleigh was concealed, 
frenzied at thought of the insults heaped upon the girl by her 
brutal father. 

“Come,” she panted, “we have no time to lose. Did you 
hear, Howard.? lam to be Lady Sydney in four-and-twenty 
hours ! I will die first !” 

He caught her in his arms. 

“You will be my wife,” he whispered, softly. “Go darling, 
and make whatever preparation may be necessary ; then return 
to this room, where I will await you. I trust we will be on 
our way to Scotland before morning dawns. I have thought of 
a plan.” 

She never stopped to question ; she left the room, and with 
cautious footsteps, crept up stairs to her own chamber, return- 
ing shortly with a small valise in her hand. 

“lam ready,” she whispered. “ Everything is in darkness. 
Evidently, old Judith thinks that you are gone; or else she is 
willing for you to find shelter in this great dungeon of a house, 
knowing that morning would reveal the truth to my father. But 
Howard, tell me, how can we escape ? Every window in the 
house is nailed fast outside ; the doors are all locked, and the 
keys in Judith’s possession ; she sleeos with them under her 
pillow.” 


A SEVEBE THBEAT. 


125 


*‘Love laughs at locksmiths,” he quoted, sententiously. 

Then he drew from his pocket a bit of strong wire, curiously 
bent, and held it up in the flickering firelight. 

“ Do you see that?” he asked. “I have never seen a lock 
that I could not open with ingenuity and a piece of wire. If 
only they do not awaken, I think we will escape, Geraldine. 
Hark I what is that?” 

Roaring and howling, the tempest long threatened was upon 
them at last, tearing through the tall tree-tops, tossing their 
branches wildly with a moaning sound. With a frightened cry 
Geraldine clung to her lover’s arm. 

“ It is a fearful night !” she whispered, in an awe-struck tone. 

“So much the better for us,” returned Howard, “for the 
noise of the storm will cover our departure. I will go to work 
at once on the outer door. If I succeed, I will summon you.” 

He stepped noiselessly into the hall, and Geraldine stood with 
her hand pressed upon her wildly throbbing heart, and listened, 
eagerly. No sound reached her ears save “the wind at his 
prayers. ” Up stairs in the great house silence and darkness 
reigned. 

Old Judith had not troubled herself in regard to the intruder. 
Her master having arrived, she had given all authority into his 
hands, and had retired to her own couch, after imbibing freely 
from the little squat tea-pot full of young hyson, with a strong 
infusion of old cognac to keep it warm. She had told Lionel 
Vernon simply of Howard’s intrusion, but had neglected to add 
that he was still in the house, for she stood in wholesome awe 
of her master’s anger ; while Vernon himself, fondly believing 
that his daughter had retired, as he had bidden her, was sleep- 
ing soundly after the fatigue of his journey ; and it thus hap- 
pened that Howard had everything his own way. 

Geraldine stood panting and breathless in the great room, 
trying to still the wild tumult in her breast. ' The fire was dying 
out now, and fitful shadows danced in the corners. The mo- 


126 


A SBVEJRJ^ THREAT, 


ments like ages wore away, and at last the door was pushed 
open stealthily, and Howard’s cautious voice whispered : 

“ Come !” 

With a prayer for help and guidance in her heart, Geraldine 
Vernon followed him into the gloomy hall-way through the open 
outer door, and stood trembling and agitated upon the wind- 
swept porch. 

The tempest howled and shrieked around them, and a great 
tree standing down the avenue was torn up by the roots, 
whirled in the wind a little, and fell with a loud crash to the 
ground. Shuddering violently, Geraldine threw her arms 
about her lover’s neck. 

“A bad omen,” she whispered, “a bad omen, but I would 
rather die than go back !” 

Half an hour later, Lionel Vernon’s own carriage went tear- 
ing down the long country road through the storm and dark- 
ness — the horses instinctively taking the right direction — on to 
the railroad station ; its occupants, Howard and Geraldine. 
Their destination reached and the train boarded — fortunately 
they had not long to wait — away they flew through the night and 
the darkness, and the curtain was rung up upon the first act 
in the strange tragedy before them. 

♦ * 5H ♦ ♦ * 

The sun was going down— a lurid ball of fire — in the gloomy 
west, and there was an unpleasant chill in the air. The few 
passengers in the waiting-room at a certain way-side station in 
a remote corner of Scotland, drew their wraps closer about their 
shoulders, while their faces looked pinched and blue in the cold 
atmosphere. 

In an obscure corner a tall man sat, his hat slouched over his 
eyes, and a long cloak covering him from head to foot, watch- 
ing the door of the waiting-room furtively, but with eager, 
earnest gaze. It opened, suddenly, and two people entered — 
Geraldine and her husband, for the marriage ceremony had 


A SEVSJBE THREAT. 


127 


been said over them not two hours before. The worst was 
over, they congratulated themselves, as Howard hastened to 
procure tickets for the nearest seaport town, eager and anxious 
to start, for they longed to put the ocean between them and the 
cruel old man who would tear them asunder. 

“All ready!’" he said, as, having secured the tickets, he 
came to Geraldine’s side. “Thank God, little wife, every- 
thing has succeeded. We are safe at last, and no one can ever 
separate us — never on earth I” 

He paused aghast, as a low cry issued from Geraldine’s lips. 
The man in the corner had arisen now, and, striding forward, 
confronted them in grim silence. Geraldine threw up both 
hands with a wordless moan, for there before them, stern and 
awful, stood her father, Lionel Vernon 1 


CHAPTER HI. 

Howard’s arrest. 

For a moment they stood there facing each other in dead 
silence; then the old man came forward, and with a grim 
smile, laid his hand on the girl’s arm. 

“Geraldine,” he said, quietly, “where are you going?” 

She gazed back into his face with equal composure. 

“I was.about to embark for America with my husband,” she 
answered, calmly. 

“Your what?” 

The question was put very tranquilly. There was not a 
vestige of discernible anger in Lionel Vernon’s imperturbable 
countenance. His daughter faced him with cool determina- 
tion. 

“ You have not followed me here, father,” she returned, 
calmly, “ without being aware that I am not alone? I have 
taken my future into my own hands, and Howard Ashleigh is 


128 


A SFVEJiU THREAT. 


my husband. Forgive me, father !” and she clasped her hands 
imploringly. “Pardon my undutiful conduct. I am con- 
vinced that the day will come when you will acknowledge that 
I am in the right 

“Forgive you.? Oh, yes!” he returned, with that same 
ominous quiet. “Come, Geraldine.” 

She gazed into his face with wondering surprise. 

“ Where ?” she gasped. 

“Home,” returned Vernon, coolly. “Of course you will 
accompany me.? Your marriage amounts to nothing; Scotch 
marriages are not legal in England, and ” 

“That is a mistake, sir!” cried Howard, no longer able to 
maintain silence; “the ceremony just performed is legal any- 
where in the world ! Geraldine is my wife, and as such I claim 
her.” 

Lionel Vernon glanced at the young man with angry con- 
tempt. 

“I don’t know you, sir,” he returned, haughtily; “ but I 
would thank you to attend to your own affairs. Geraldine, the 
train is about to start ; make haste, my daughter, or we shall 
miss it” 

He attempted to lake the girl’s trembling hand, but she 
shrank away to Howard’s side and confronted her father with 
calm disdain. 

“Howard Ashleigh is my husband, sir!” she said, proudly. 
“You cannot separate husband and wife ! ’ 

Livid with fearful anger, the old man turned and beckoned 
to a couple of men who were standing in a corner of the wait- 
ing-room, watching the scene quietly. They were in citizens’ 
dress, but as they drew near in answer to the summons of Ver- 
non, they simultaneously displayed the shining badges which 
betrayed their office. 

“This is the man !” said Vernon,' indicating Howard as he 
spoke. “This is the culprit whom you seek. I demand his 
arrest on the charge of embezzlement. Officers, do your duty !” 


A SUVEBE THBEAT. 


129 


With a low moan of horror and despair, Geraldine darted for- 
ward as though to throw her arms about her husband, but her 
father’s strong hand detained her, and she paused, panting and 
breathless. 

One of the officers dropped his hand on Howard’s shoulder ; 
he struck it down with stinging contempt. 

“ Don’t dare to touch me,” he panted, “or murder will be 
done here !” 

In a twinkling both officers sprang upon the young man, 
overpowered him, and the “bracelets” were upon his wrists. 
Geraldine, in a death-like swoon lying in her father’s arms, 
knew nothing of the occurrence, and the officers dragged the 
young husband away — pallid, agonized, heart-broken ; not 
knowing what might happen ere he should be free again to claim 
his wife through the strong hands of the law. 

It was an easy matter for Lionel Vernon to carry his uncon- 
scious daughter on board the train, which did not start for sev- 
eral minutes; and leaving the place, they were borne away as 
fast as steam could carry them. Once more in England, Geral- 
dine awoke from the long stupor which had followed that death- 
like swoon, and began to realize the horror of her own position. 

One day in early winter, with the light snow lying like a down 
blanket over the bare, brown earth, Geraldine entered the gates 
of her former prison, and was lead up to the broad, wind-swept 
walk to the dismal old house ; its doors closed behind her with 
a clang, and she was a prisoner once more. 

The days came and went — came and went with slow, leaden 
feet ; winter had died and fair, sweet spring had been born, 
when one day Lionel Vernon suddenly appeared at the old 
house. Geraldine was sitting at an open window, for she had 
grown so weak and frail that it was no longer deemed neces- 
sary to cage her like a bird. She was very pale and delicate, in 
a dress of snowy cashmere, her thin hands lying on her lap, her 
great, dark eyes fixed upon the landscape without. When she 
had come back to this dreary prison the brown earth was lying 


130 


A s:E:vmB threat. 


hushed and still under its snowy cover, and now the violets 
were beginning to peep through the mold. She raised her eyes 
at last and saw her father standing before her. 

“ Geraldine,” he said, and his tone was less harsh than usual, 
“are you ready to obey me ?” 

She started, as though awakened from a dream. 

“ Obey you ?” she repeated, calmly ; “what do you mean V* 

“I mean this. Are you ready to become Lady Sydney 

She arose from her seat, her pale face aglow with scorn and 
indignation, one slight hand uplifted, frail and white. 

“ Father,” she faltered, but her voice was full of sternness, 
“lam Howard Ashleigh’s wife.” 

“Howard Ashleigh’s wife !” repeated the old man, with a 
wicked sneer; “I thought that folly was ended ; besides, even 
granted that the marriage was aught but the farce it was, 
Howard Ashleigh is dead.” 

She did not faint ; she did not shriek aloud or cry out in her 
mortal agony ; she stood before that cruel old man like some 
wild creature that had received its death-wodnd, yet still faces its 
pursuer with eyes full of pitiful entreaty. But there was no 
pity, no mercy, in Lionel Vernon’s heart. 

“Yes,” he went on, slowly, “ Howard Ashleigh is dead, and 
he ought to have died long ago, before he ever crossed your 
path. See !” 

He laid a folded newspaper before her, and pointed to a 
marked paragraph. 

With a slow horror stealing over her heart, Geraldine de- 
ciphered these words : 

“Died. — Suddenly, in Glasgow, Scotland, Nov. i, Mr, 
Howard Ashleigh, a native of South Carolina, U. S. A., aged 
27 years.” 

When she glanced up from that fatal paragraph, she was all 
alone in the room, and night was slowly creeping over all 
things. She crouched in a corner of the couch upon which she 
had fallen in the first horror of that awful blow, and cowered 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


131 


down in dull despair. Dead ! , The man she loved, whom she 
had always loved since their first meeting three years before ; the 
man who was her husband ; dead all these weary months, while 
’she had been breaking her heart because she heard no word 
from him since she had been torn from his side at the little 
railway station in Scotland. He was dead ! And she— what 
mattered it, after all, what became of her now ! 

A light touch on her shoulder aroused her ; glancing up, she 
saw that her father had returned to her side. 

“ Geraldine, he said, “John Sydney has arrived, and with 
him a clergyman. All necessary forms have been complied 
with, and since all is in readiness,, you will obey me, and con- 
sent to be married quietly.?” 

She stared vacantly before her, but she had no words to utter. 

“ Geraldine 1” 

The word was like a groan. Her father, haughfy Lionel 
Vernon, was upon his knees now at his daughter’s feet. 

“ My child !” he went on, wringing his hands in wild despera- 
tion, “ I have told you of a guilty secret in our family. I did 
not tell you all. I thought to spare you, in mercy. But listen, 
Geraldine ; / am iht guilty wretch who has brought disgrace 
upon our fair name. Sir John Sydney can and will lift the 
cloud of shame from our escutcheon, and the world need never 
know the truth if you will only consent to be his wife. He 
knows how you dislike him, it is true, but I have scrupulously 
concealed from him your — ^your foolish fancy for young Ash- 
leigh ; and believing that, though you do not care for himself, 
your heart is still free, he will make you Lady Sydney, and save 
us from a dreadful fate. Geraldine, it lies in your hands. Will 
you avert disgrace and ruin from the Vernon name ? Will you 
save your unhappy father from a felon’s doom ?” 

She listened as one in a dream. Outside the open door the 
great entrance hall shone brilliantly with a brave array of lamps 
down its long vista. Geraldine's dull gaze caught a glimpse of 
the tall, spare figure of an elderly man, with coarse, red face, 


132 


A SJSVUBJS TJIBBAT. 


low, retreating brow, and eyes like a ferret's ; a heavy, gray 
beard and mustache, with overhanging brows of the same hue — 
Sir John Sydney. 

She caught her breath hard, like one in mortal pain. Into her. 
face there crept a look of desperate horror. Then slowly she 
lifted her heavy eyes, and signed her own death-sentence. 

“ I will obey you, father,” she said, in a low, stern, unnatural 
tone, ‘ ‘ because you ar^ my father, though. Heaven knows, you 
have never been as one to me. I will consent to marry this 
man whom I hate — haky do you understand } 

“ But, so help me Heaven ! he shall rue the day that he made 
me his unloving wife — I, who hold naught in my heart for him 
but bitter hatred ! His future shall be one long scene of un- 
happiness. I swear to do all in my power to render him miser- 
able. I will pass my life in plotting against his peace, his hap- 
piness, his very existence ! Living, I will be to him a con- 
tinual reproach and torture ; dying, I will come back from the 
tomb to haunt him ! 

No threat is too severe for the dastardly coward who has 
instigated this unmanly persecution, and who would drag a 
heart-broken woman into an unholy marriage. This is no idle 
threat. I have registered it in my heart, and, so help me 
Heaven, I will keep it to the bitter end !” 

A footfall sounded on the bare floor ; she raised her eyes, and 
a low moan of horror and anguish escaped her white lips. 


CHAPTER IV. 

SEVEN days’ grace. 

The cry was frozen upon Geraldine's lips as her eyes fell 
upon the hated face'of Sir John Sydney. He had grown 
tired of waiting for Lionel Vernon to report the progress of 
affairs, and had ventured into the young girl's presence. She 
put out her hands with a gesture of loathing. 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


133 


**Keep away !” she faltered. Don't dare trouble me now. 
I ” 

But her father caught her arm, with a warning gesture. 

“Geraldine,” he cried, commandingly, “you are beside 
yourself. Come in. Sir John. My daughter is not well, and 
is nervous and excited. Your unexpected coming has alarmed 
her somewhat. ” 

But she broke from her father's detaining grasp, and dart- 
ing forward, paused before the baronet, her eyes shining with 
the fires of unquenchable hatred, her breath coming pantingly, 
her small hands clutched convulsively. 

speak,” she panted; “father, I demand the right. 
You shall not prevent my telling this man — this wretch '' — > 
and she ground the word out fiercely between her small, 
white teeth, “in what utter contempt I hold him ; how thor- 
oughly I despise and hate him. If I were to see him at this 
moment down in the dust at my feet, writhing in the pangs 
from which / might free him by the lifting of a hand, I would 
pray that my hand should be stricken powerless forever ere I 
would lift it for his relief. And now. Sir John Sydney, know- 
ing my true estimate of your character, I ask you, do you still 
wish me to be your wife?” 

Speaking from the fullness of her disgust and aversion, acting 
as most impulsive, passionate natures would have acted, Ger- 
aldine Vernon had yet made a grand mistake. Sir John was 
of a tenacious nature. He had fallen desperately in love with 
the bright, beautiful, audacious girl ; the idea had taken pos- 
session of him that she, with her bewildering beauty and strange 
fascination, would prove a Lady Sydney of whom he might be 
proud ; and he had determined to win her by fair means or 
foul. He was, as I have said, remarkably tenacious by nature, 
and all this opposition on her part but served to strengthen his 
wild passion. He was a bad man to the very core of his hard 
heart. No deed was too dark for him to attempt when aught 
stood in the way of the gratification of his selfish wishes. Gaz- 


134 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


ing upon the proud, haughty face of the girl before him, Sir 
John felt the sluggish blood leap madly in his veins. More 
beautiful in her anger and contempt than he had ever seen her, 
the baronet registered a vow within his heart to make this girl 
his own, though it cost him his life. It was a mad, unreason- 
ing passion, and for the time swept over his entire nature like 
a flood tide, carrying every other consideration before it. He 
gazed into Geraldine’s white face with eyes full of ominous 
fire. 

“ Your wild words only serve to strengthen my resolution. 
Miss Vernon,” he said, decidedly. “I see now what a spirited 
Lady Sydney you will make. And how I shall delight in clip- 
ping my lady’s wings,” he muttered, aside. 

With a haughty gesture, Geraldine swept past him toward 
the door. The baronet strode forward, and extended one arm, 
as though to bar her passage from the room. 

*‘Stop, my Lady Disdajn !” he cried. “I demand my an- 
swer now. Is the marriage to take place at once, this very 
hour, or am I to wait another year ? Be careful, my dear ; my 
patience is not without limit.” 

She paused and faced him quietly, gazing straight into his 
face, with haughty, defiant eyes. She had decided to comply 
with her father’s command, and take this step which wound ren- 
der her own life a howling wilderness ; for her father’s sake, 
that he might not be deprived of liberty — life, perhaps. But 
she could not — could not do it now, when her heart lay crushed 
and bleeding beneath the weight of the awful blow which had 
fallen upon it — the news of Howard Ashleigh’s death. No I 
though they killed her, they should not drag her, a heart-broken 
widow, to the altar, within the very hour upon which the awful 
tidings had reached her. She struck her clenched hands to- 
gether with a fierce gesture, and turned her blazing eyes upon 
the wretch who awaited her reply. 

'‘No, sir,” she returned, contemptuously, “you shall not 
compel me to comply with your wicked proposition now. No 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


135 


— no, a thousand times, no ! You have heard the words which 
I spoke to my father ; you know, therefore, what to expect when 
you make Geraldine Vernon your wife. Since you invite your 
doom, the consequences be upon your own head. No, Sir 
John Sydney, the unholy sacrifice must not be — s/ia// not be 
now r' " 

Sir John gave the girl a comprehensive glance, and his eyes 
wore an ugly expression. 

“ One week from to-day,'' he returned, coldly, “I will meet 
you in London ; your father will bring you thither. The wed- 
ding will be solemnized at once, at St. George’s, and Lionel 
Vernon’s guilty secret will be safe. Do you understand me, 
Geraldine 

She shuddered visibly. 

Yes, I understand you. The sacrifice shall take place, and 
the victim will not be wanting. But woe to you. Sir John Syd- 
ney ! You shall live to remember this hour, and look back 
upon it with the keenest regret that the human heart can know ! 
As sure as you stand there I will pay you off inch by inch for 
all the wrongs you have inflicted upon me. Beware, Sir John 
Sydney !” 

He bent his head in mock obeisance. 

“ One week from to-day,” was his significant answer. “ At- 
tempt to retract or escape me and your father swings from the 
scaffold !” 

He left the room with heavy tread, and directly afterward, 
down the avenue which led from the house the rumble of car- 
riage wheels announced his departure. 

Geraldine stood listening to the echo of his footfall as he 
passed from the house. As the rattle of wheels fell upon her 
ear she drew a long breath of relief as though a heavy incubus 
had been lifted from her heart. 

She had gained one week of grace — seven days’ respite ! 


136 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


CHAPTER V. 

A DEED OF DARKNESS. 

The carriage which contained Sir John and the clergyman 
went straight back to Waltham. Here the reverend gentleman 
alighted, and the carriage with its single occupant went flying 
through the streets of the quaint old town, on toward the green 
country on the other side. Here the baronet alighted and bade 
the man await his return at a tiny inn near by, promising to be 
back in an hour. 

Once alone, Sir John turned to the left and plunged into a 
lonely lane. On he went for some distance, pausing at length, 
abruptly, as the faint gleam of lamp-light fell athwart the path- 
way. 

“Curse the fool V he muttered, angrily. “Why on earth 
does she illuminate the place ? Some one chancing along here 
will find the nest hidden away in the green lane, and then !” 

He gnawed his grizzled mustache furiously, without finishing 
the sentence, and there was a threatening expression on his 
face. 

As he hurried on, the clouds began to cover the sky, and the 
pure-eyed stars shining down serenely were hidden from sight ; 
while a black, angry wall of cloud heaped up in the sullen 
west, began to send forth defiant mutterings. 

With a fearful imprecation on the coming storm, the baronet 
passed on through the blossoming hedge rows, looking neither 
to the right nor left. A low fence arose before him, intercept- 
ing the road. He cleared it with a single bound, and in a 
moment more he paused before a tiny, thatched cottage, half 
concealed by clustering woodbine. A low rap upon the door, 
a significant summons ; there was the sound of a suppressed 


A SUVUBi: THREAT. 


137 


exclamation within ; then soft footsteps approached the door, 
and a voice demanded, cautiously : 

Who’s there ?” 

‘‘John !” answered the baronet, through the keyhole. 

Then the door swung slowly open and he strode over the 
threshold. A bit of a cot, three tiny rooms, but neatly and even 
handsomely furnished. There was a handful of fire burning 
in the diminutive grate, and a round table stood before it, laden 
with books and flowers — in the center a handsome lamp. The 
floor was covered with matting, there were a few good pictures 
on the gray-tinted walls, the windows were draped in muslin, 
there was a cottage piano, and a gilt cage with a yellow canary, 
like a puff of down, sound asleep on its perch, with its head 
tucked under its wing. 

Sir John closed and locked the door behind him, and ad- 
vanced to the fire, pausing upon the velvet hearth-rug to look 
down upon the woman before him. The dark beauty of the 
Andalusian ; eyes of a lustrous darkness, and hair like black 
satin ; a complexion of cream and roses — a very beautiful 
woman ! 

As she stood there gazing up into his face, hard, ugly though 
it was (they looked like beauty and the beast standing there to- 
gether), it was easy to see that this woman — inexplicable as it 
appeared — laved the man before her with all her heart and soul. 
A woman no longer in her first youth, but with much of its 
beauty and fervor lingering still about her. 

“ It is so long since I have seen you, John !” she said, laying 
her smooth cheek against his shoulder. “And Lola is away 
fiom home ; I am sorry ! I let her go to Waltham with old 
Zingra ; for there is to be a grand ball at one of the big houses 
to-night, and they wanted Lola to sing. You are not angry, 
dear.? Zingra will take good care of her, and we needed the 
money so much, for they promised to pay well.” 

She laid one little hand upon his, but he shook off her slight 
touch, roughly, as though it hurt him, and turning his back to- 


138 


A SBFFIiJi; THREAT. 


ward the fire, he folded his arms upon his breast, and gazed 
down into her face with pitiless eyes. 

“Stella,” he began, abruptly, after a moment's silence, “are 
you sorry that you married me 

All she dark, rich beauty of her face lit up with a crimson 
glow. She shook her head slowly. 

“ I loved you,” she cried, “and I always believed that you 
were happy with me, until you left me with my child in sunny 
France and came to this country. I waited years for your re- 
turn— what was life without you ? The money that you sent 
me was not a substitute for your presence, and so, a few months 
ago, unable longer to endure the separation, I followed you 
here, guided by the postmark on your letters to me. I found 
you ; but, alas ! you are as much a stranger to me as though I 
were in a distant land. In obedience to your command, I have 
secluded myself in this lonely place ; but I am tired of hiding 
like a criminal from justice. I am willing to share your pov- 
erty, dear, and your station in life, whatever it may be. Besides, 
Lola is eighteen now, and I cannot always keep her concealed. 
She is very beautiful. John, you need not be ashamed of your 
wife and child !” 

How perfect she was, with her earnest eyes upon his face. 
To her there was no lack of grace or beauty in the man before 
her — for she loved him. Woman-like, she invested him with 
the attributes of a god, and fell down before the clay image 
which she had exalted. This man, devoid of beauty, was 
nevertheless extremely fascinating when he chose to be. He 
struck his talons in the heart of this woman, Stella Gilroy, and 
she believed him little less than an angel. True, he had neg- 
lected her for years, but she had always been ready with an ex- 
cuse for his delinquency when he returned to her ; and even now 
she forgave his harshness, woman-like, because he had come 
back, you see. 

For a time he stood in moody silence. Stella ventured to 
make one more attempt at conciliation. It was evident that 


A SFFIJBB THREAT. 


139 


there was something on his mind, and she longed with all her 
heart to help and sympathize with him. 

“How is business now, dear?” she queried, presently. 
“ Have you any portraits to paint?” 

“Beastly !” he growled, seeming to enjoy the shameful de- 
deption which he was practicing upon her. “Not an order has 
come in for weeks. Stella, portrait painting is not to be de- 
pended upon when a man is a poor, untitled beggar.” 

“ If you could only get a start in the world,” she sighed, “all 
would be well, I am sure. Why should not the name of John 
Gordon be enrolled among the successful artists of the day ? 
Why not try to gain the patronage of the titled and great — Sir 
John Sydney, for instance, of Sydney House? He has just 
returned, I am told, from a long absence in other lands, and is 
reputed to be a collector of paintings, and a judge of their 
merits.” 

The pseudo John Gordon started, and grew deadly pale. 
He glanced at her suspiciously. 

“Who told you that?” he demanded, angrily. “ Have you 
dared to disobey me, Stella ?” 

She returned the glance deprecatingly, reproachfully. 

“ No, no !” she cried, quickly ; “I have not disobeyed you. 
I do not go out. Indeed, I keep in strict retirement here, as 
you ordered. But old Zingra hears the village gossip when she 
is obliged to go to Waltham, once a week, for supplies. She 
says it is reported in the village that Sir John Sydney is soon to 
marry, and that there is to be a grand wedding. Why, John, 
what is the matter ?” 

For the baronet recoiled as though he had been struck, and 
his ruddy face grew slowly pallid. He made no reply, but 
wheeling suddenly about, gazed into the dying fire. 

‘ ‘ Stella, ” he observed, at length, his tone changing to one of 
tenderness, “you have our — our marriage certificate, have you 
not, darling?” 

She flushed with delight at sound of the affectionate epithet. 


140 


A SEVERE THREAT, 


Woman-like, the first endearing word brought her to her feet 
again. She crossed the room quickly, and opening her es- 
critoire, took thence a folded paper, and laid it in his hand. 

Sir John opened it slowly, and glanced over the lines which 
told to the world that John Gordon and Stella Gilroy had been 
united in marriage, in a certain retired hamlet in England, just 
nineteen years before, when Stella Gilroy was eighteen, and 
care-free. 

Sir John read the document slowly, his eyes gleaming with 
Satanic delight ; then he turned deliberately, and tossed it upon 
the bed of still smoldering coals in the grate. 

Stella sprang forward, and caught his arm. Her face was 
drawn and ashen white. 

*‘My marriage lines!” she panted, breathlessly. ‘^Good 
God, John, what have you done ? Don’t you know it might 
ruin me? And Lola; think of your child, John — our little 
Lola 1” 

But, alas I it was too late. There was a flash, a flicker of 
rosy flame shooting upward, and the paper lay before her horror- 
stricken gaze, a heap of gray, feathery ashes. 

With a low moan of agony she turned and confronted him. 
All tenderness had vanished now ; all love had died out of her 
heart. “Even the worm will turn,” and Stella Gordon’s hour 
had come at last. 

‘ ‘ What do you mean ?” she gasped, and the expression of 
her eyes boded him no good. 

But he met her gaze boldly. 

“I mean this !” he answered, cuttingly. “I have taken 
from your keeping the only proof in existence that you are my 
wife. I was tired of you long ago — horribly tired ; and — I am 
done with you forever. Besides, listen, Stella ; I am not John 
Gordon, the poor, strolling artist ; I am Sir John Sydney, 
Baronet, of Sydney House ; and in one week’s time I shall 
lead to the altar the loveliest woman in England. You are not 
my wife after all, because I married you under a fictitious name. 


A SEVEUi: THE EAT. 


141 


You have never been my wife. You are only my mistress, and 
your child is ” 

But Sir John Sydney had gone a step too far. With the 
bound of a tigress Stella reached his side, and clutched his 
throat with her white fingers. He felt the blood rush in a pur- 
ple flood to his face ; his tongue protruded ; his eyes were start- 
ing from their sockets ; for the time Stella was insane, and had 
the power to deprive of life the wretch who had ruined and 
devastated her own existence, and given a heritage of shame to 
the child whom she idolized. 

Writhing and gasping in her grasp, the baronet'^contrived at 
length to draw from an inner pocket, a sharp little stiletto, 
which he was wont to carry with him in case of a possible 
emergency. Grasping it firmly he turned suddenly and plunged 
it into Stella's side. 

With a gasping, gurgling cry she sank, a blood-dabbled 
heap, upon the floor at his feet, the life-tide pouring from the 
ghastly hole in her breast. 

The baronet stood for a moment transfixed with horror at 
his own deed, then he stooped and drew the dagger from the 
wound. The great dark eyes flew open suddenly, and fixed 
themselves upon his own ; the blood-stained lips parted slowly. 

“ Murderer !" she faltered, brokenly, '^beware !” 

Was it fancy, or did a voice, close at his elbow, repeat that 
one dread, warning word ; 

“ Beware r 

Shivering visibly. Sir John glanced about him cautiously ; 
but there was no accusing witness ; nothing met his gaze save 
that white, upturned face upon the floor at his feet. And then 
he saw that her spirit had fled. 

As he paused there, his eyes riveted with a strange fascina- 
tion upon the rigid, ashen face, a low, moaning sound fell 
upon his ears, followed by a rushing and roaring, which an- 
nounced that the threatened storm had at length burst forth in 
unrestrained fury. Then there came a flash of blue, sulphur- 


142 


A TmEAT. 


ous lightning, which was horrible to witness, followed by a 
deafening clap of thunder, and a stunning report. 

A blaze of light, like a lurid ball of fire, darted between the 
baronet and the prostrate figure upon the floor, and in an in- 
stant he knew that the house had been struck by lightning. 

With a wild shriek, as though the very fiends of darkness 
were let loose upon his track, he fled from the cottage, out into 
the storm and blackness of the night 


CHAPTER VI. 

WEDDED. 

“ Sir John sends his compliments, and begs you to accept 
this. Miss Geraldine." 

And Ninette, the pretty French maid, laid a velvet casket 
upon the table near Geraldine Vernon’s side. It was at the 
Vernons’ town house in Park Lane, London, and it was the 
morning of Geraldine’s wedding-day. The hour for the sacri- 
fice was drawing nigh, and according to promise the victim was 
not wanting. 

The bride-elect sat in her pretty chamber, surrounded by 
every luxury that wealth can furnish ; but her face, in its frozen 
despair, was like the face of a corpse, and in her dark eyes there 
burned the fires of hatred and passion. As Ninette spoke, she 
turned her head aside with a weary gesture, and made no 
reply. 

“And, oh, Miss Geraldine !’’ continued the maid, volubly, 
“the wedding presents are coming in fast ; and — such beau-ti- 
ful things I Oh, I should think you would like to see them ! 
There’s jewels fit for a princess — emeralds and rubies, and gold 
and silver plate, and elegant trifles of every description — 
enough to furnish a house. How happy you ought to be. Miss 
Geraldine I” 


A SBVJSJiS: TIIBFAT. 


143 


Don't r cried the girl, sharply, and the two small hands 
clenched themselves together until there were purple marks on 
the delicate white flesh. 

Ninette stared in surprise, and, turning to the velvet case be- 
fore her, lifted it with tender touch. 

“Please, Miss Geraldine — may I open this.?” she cried, be- 
seechingly; for she had always been a favorite with her young 
mistress, and was spoiled accordingly. 

Geraldine nodded carelessly. What mattered all the mag- 
nificence with which she was surrounded when her heart was 
broken .? 

“I’ll open it, then,” went on the maid; “and after that it 
will be time for you to let me dress you, for it’s past nine, and 
at twelve, you know, the ceremony is to take place. And it's 
such a lovely day. Miss Geraldine ! ‘ Happy is the bride that 

the sun shines on !’ Oh !” 

Ninette had the casket open now, and drew back from the 
table with a little shriek of wonder and delight. Sir John’s 
bridal gift to his unwilling bride was a magnificent set of dia- 
monds and opals mingled. They lay upon their white satin 
bed in matchless beauty. 

Opals!'* ejaculated Ninette, with a little pout; “why, 
that’s too bad ! Sir John has sent you opals. Miss Geraldine, 
and they’re unlucky stones, you know.” 

The bride to be smiled faintly — a derisive ghost of a smile ; 
she turned her head slowly, and just then a gleam of white 
caught her eyes, and she saw that a folded paper lay at the bot- 
tom of the jewel-case. She drew it slowly forth and glanced at 
the superscription. “Lionel Vernon’s Confession,” it said; 
and beneath these words were added in Sir John Sydney’s hand- 
writing : 

“Bum this paper, and your father’s crime will remain a dead secret, lor 
no one in the world save myself holds a clew to the dreadful deed.” 

Pale and trembling, Geraldine dismissed her maid. When 


144 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


she was alone she lighted a wax taper, and, without unfolding 
the document, she held it in the flame, and waited patiently 
while it slowly consumed. 

She did not wish to know what that dread paper contained ; 
only let it be destroyed, and then the sacrifice of her life would 
cover up her father’s sin. Oh, had she but glanced at the 
secret which that sheet of paper held inviolate, how different all 
her future might have been ! 

The last scrap of paper consumed, Geraldine bowed her head 
upon her hand, and fell into a profound reverie. 

The moments flitted by. The gilded clock, on a marble 
pedestal, chimed the hour of ten, and still she sat there 
oblivious of her surroundings. It was the saddest marriage 
morn that ever a woman’s eyes beheld. At last there came a 
warning tap upon the door, and her father’s voice called softly : 

Geraldine, it is getting late ; the time is flying. You had 
better be dressing, my child.” 

She arose with a weary sigh ; her last hour of respite had 
expired. 

“So help me, Heayen !” — she ground out the threat between 
her pale lips — “Sir John Sydney shall suffer yet as I am suffer- 
ing now !” and her words were prophetic. 

She rang for Ninette, and, emotionless as a marble statue, 
submitted herself to her hands. To the last moment she had 
hoped . against hope that something would intervene between 
herself and the horrible fate before her ; but the last ray of 
hope was fading away now, and she seemed to feel a great black 
door swing to upon her future, and to shut out all but dark 
despair. 

Two hours later the long bridal procession swept up the 
broad aisle of St. George’s. An immense crowd had gathered, 
the church was full to overflowing, and the street outside was 
black with the curious lookers-on. White as the sheeted 
dead, the bride leaned heavily upon her father’s arm. In her 
priceless robe of white satin and costly lace, glittering with dia- 


A TIlJiFAT. 


145 


monds, she passed on to her doom. Her heart was overflow- 
ing with memories of that other wedding-day, when, in spite of 
the dangers and troubles which had threatened them, life had 
still looked so fair and sweet. It all came back to her now — 
poor Geraldine ! and it seemed to her, in that moment of 
horror and anguish, as though she could take the life of the 
wicked man she was so soon to call by the name of husband. 

The altar was reached at last. The white-robed bishop, 
prayer-book in hand, stood waiting as the bridal procession 
filed forward, the pathway strewn with flowers. A grand show ; 
but from the bottom of her heart Geraldine Vernon envied the 
little beggars staring at her with open mouths and round-eyed 
wonder. Even yet a faint, shadowy hope struggled in her breast 
that she might escape from the fearful fate before her — that it 
was not too late. For, somehow, hope dies hard in the breast 
of the young, and the wild delusion had crossed her brain that 
even at the last moment something might intervene to rescue 
her. But, alas ! nothing came. The words were spoken, the 
solemn vows exchanged, which in this case, as in many others, 
were but a travesty ; there was a hush resting over all, and the 
ceremony went on to the bitter end. True, when the fateful 
words were spoken : “Wilt thou have this man for thy wedded 
husband V there was an ominous silence. For an instant 
Geraldine hesitated. A wild temptation besieged her to cry 
aloud, “No, a thousand times no !” but a vision of her father 
(who, harsh, and cruel, and unnatural, was her father, after all) 
arose before her mind, and she seemed to see him immured in 
a prison cell, or expiating his mysterious crime upon the scaf- 
fold ; and so the words were uttered faintly as a sob — the fatal 
words, I will” 

The benediction was pronounced, the organ pealed forth the 
triumphant wedding march, and the bridal procession filed 
slowly out of the church. 

Geraldine Vernon’s fate was sealed, and she was Lady Sydney. 
Just at that moment a carriage g^me dashing madly around the 


146 


A "SEVEKE THEE AT. 


nearest corner, its sole occupant a young man, pale as death, 
and so full of anguish and horror was his face that the passers- 
by turned involuntarily to catch a glimpse as he gazed from the 
carriage window. As the vehicle neared St. George’s, Hanover 
square, the immense crowd blocked the way, and suddenly 
rearing and plunging, the horses came to a halt. The driver 
glanced into the carriage at his ‘‘fare.” 

“ A wedding, sir,” he answered, laconically. 

The young man’s pale face blanched to a deathly hue. 

“ Whose?*' he demanded, fiercely. 

“Sir John Sydney, of Sydney House, they say, and a Miss 
Vernon, sir. It’s over now, I Ah, there they come !” 

Stifling the exclamation which arose to his lips, the young 
man sprang from the carriage, and pressed forward through the 
swaying, pushing crowd. The bridal party was coming slowly 
toward the long line of carriages drawn up at the curbing to 
await them. He made his way to the curbstone, and paused 
there. Geraldine, Lady Sydney, lifted her heavy eyes, and they 
fell upon his face. 

Then shriek after shriek rent the air, and she fell to the 
ground, a thin stream of crimson blood issuing from her pallid 
lips. 


CHAPTER VH. 

THE orphan’s vow. 

The thunder boomed like giant artillery ; the lightning shot 
in lurid flashes athwart the inky sky ; the trees rocked in the 
arms of the tempest ; and through it all a slim, girlish figure 
hurried down the lowly lane where the cottage stood, pausing at 
length, dripping wet, and shivering with chill and terror, upon 
the tiny porch before the door. 

“ Thank God !” she ejaculated, fervently, stopping to draw a 
long breath of relief. “ What a terrible journey — three whole 


A threat. 


147 


miles from Waltham ! I did not think that the storm would 
burst so soon, and I could not stay away from mamma. So I 
left old Zingra, and came alone. I have a strange presentiment 
that something is wrong. Perhaps she is ill. How still every- 
thing is in the house !” 

The girl rapped loudly upon the door of the cottage. But 
there was no response. Again and again she rapped. There 
was a momentary lull in the storm outside, and for a short time 
everything was so quiet that she could hear the sonorous tick, 
tick of the clock on the mantel inside. 

“Something A wrong !” she exclaimed, aloud, and, throw- 
ing her weight against the cottage door, she attempted to push 
it open. To her surprise, it yielded readily, and Stella Gor- 
don’s daughter staggered across the threshold, half wild with 
nameless horror, and a dread of she knew not what. 

The lamp burned low upon the table, and there was a strange, 
sulphurous odor in the room ; but at first she did not perceive 
its silent occupant. 

She took one step, and then she paused aghast, while a low 
cry issued from her pallid lips. For a flash of blazing light- 
ning flew over the sky, and illumined the interior of the room 
with a gleam beside which the lamp-light was pale and worth- 
less, and it disclosed the prostrate figure on the floor. One 
bound and Lola Gordon was at her mother’s side, her arms 
about her, the dusky head pillowed upon her breast. 

“ Mother I oh, mother !” she moaned, “ what is the matter.? 
Speak, mother ! Are you ill .?” 

Still, no reply. The girl sprang to her feet, and turned the 
flame of the lamp higher. It shone athwart the pale, set, rigid 
features of the woman at her feet ; a great blue, livid streak 
across the brow, which showed the path which the lightning had 
taken. 

“She is hurt!” panted Lola, tearing open the plain black 
dress ; “she has been struck by the lightning — she ” 

The girl paused, with the word frozen upon her lips ; for her 


148 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


agonized gaze rested upon the great gaping hole in the white 
breast, whence the red blood was still slowly oozing. 

Murdered r she gasped, piteously ; “ murdered ! Oh, my 
God ! my God ! who can have done so foul a deed ?" 

With her two slim hands she essayed to bind up the fearful 
wound ; but all her efforts to restore her mother availed not — 
Stella Gordon was past saving. When the girl saw, at last, that 
all her efforts were in vain, she folded the white hands upon the 
cold, lifeless breast, and crouched down at her dead mothers 
side. The two faces were wondrously alike. The child was 
only a fresher, younger copy of the original. Lustrous, dark 
eyes and heavy waves of midnight hair ; delicate features, and 
creamy complexion, betraying Spanish origin in every graceful, 
undulating movement. 

The moments passed slowly. At length Lola lifted her heavy 
eyes, and staggered to her feet. The little clock upon the pine 
mantel chimed the hour of ten. She rested her arm upon the 
mantel, and her slumberous eyes w'ere fixed upon the empty 
grate ; her lips were set in a narrow line ; there was a bitter, 
vengeful expression upon her features. 

“Who and where is my father?’' she burst forth, bitterly. 
“Curse him, wherever he is ! He has never acknowledged his 
own wife and child ; never been aught to us but a miserable 
tyrant. I hate him ! It was at my instigation that mamma 
left France, where he had hidden us away, his sole excuse being 
that I might be educated at the old convent of St. Mary. I 
have never seen him since he left us there, five years ago. But 
I think I shall know him, if we ever chance to meet again. 
There is some secret, some hidden mystery about it all, and I 
swear to ferret it out, if it cost me my life !” 

She paused, and her moody gaze wandered over to her 
mother’s white, still face. 

“ Out in the world I go,” she went on, slowly, her dark eyes 
kindling with a brassy light, “to find this man, who has devas- 
tated my mother’s life, who has wrought her ruin, and who, as 


A SIJVBJii: THREAT. 


149 


God hears me (I believe it) is guilty of her murder I Old Zin- 
gra used to tell me that I am gifted with second sight. Be it 
so or otherwise, this I prophesy ; I am convinced that John 
Gordon has had a hand in this. And, so help me Heaven ! 
he shall pay dearly for what he has done !” 

She paused for a moment, her eyes searching the white face 
before her ; then she stooped, and, removing the wedding-ring 
from the cold dead hand, she slipped it, with a shudder, upon 
her own slim finger. 

“Now for the marriage certificate,” she muttered, and with 
eager hands she searched the escritoire^ but all in vain, and a 
look of agony dawned on her beautiful face, for an unerring 
instinct warned her of the truth. “Traitor!” she hissed, 
vengefully. “Ah 1” as her quick eyes wandered to the fireless 
grate. 

With a single bound she reached it, and on her knees 
searched eagerly amid the heap of feathery ashes for some frag- 
ment, some trace, some sign of what she sought. 

At last 1 She drew her breath hard, and that same yellow 
light, like brass, shone in her dark eyes. A tiny scrap of paper, 
which had escaped the ravages of the flames, lay in her hand. 
Panting and breathless, she held it up in the lamp-light. Yes ; 
there, plainly discernible, were the signatures of John Gordon 
and Stella Gilroy, and just beneath, the name of the officiating 
clergyman, though blackened, and burned, and partly de- 
stroyed, “Andrew Ch ,” and there the record ended. 

With a groan of agony, Lola gazed upon this certain evi- 
dence that something was indeed wrong. It was evident that 
the certificate had been purposely destroyed, and there could be 
but one person in the world who could have had a hand in such 
atrocity. Clutching that scrap of paper in one little hand, Lola 
fell upon her knees at her dead mother’s side, and lifted her 
white, despairing face heavenward. Outside, the storm-fiend 
howled, and the thunder sent forth groans of sullen defiance, 
like a wild beast suddenly brought to bay ; but there upon her 


150 


A s:EvmJ(: thiieat. 


knees, all alone with her dead, Lola Gordon neither heard nor 
heeded. 

“Hear me. Heaven!'" she cried, wildly. “I swear, beside 
her lifeless body, to hunt down to his death the man who has 
ruined our lives, and .murdered her! Through the wide world 
I shall search for this man, my father" — oh, the scorn in the 
sweet voice as that word passed her lips — “and once found, I 
will brand him with the name of murderer I The same world 
cannot long continue to hold John Gordon and myself!" 

As she uttered these words she chanced to turn her head, 
and there, upon the floor at her feet, lay a shining, gleaming 
object. It was a man’s sleeve-button — a costly thing — in- 
crusted with emeralds, and with a coat of arms engraven upon 
the reverse side. She glanced at it with a curious expression 
upon her matchless face ; then she wrapped it in the bit of paper 
— all that remained of her mother’s marriage certificate — and hid 
it away in her bosom. 

A slight noise startled her ; the door of the cottage swung 
slowly open, and a man stood before her upon the threshold. 
With a frightened cry she sprang to her feet and confronted the 
intruder. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

FACE TO FACE WITH FATE. 

A Stranger — a young man of perhaps five-and-twenty, tall and 
handsome, with a muscular though slender figure, graceful and 
easy, brown eyes and dark hair, with the marks of gentle breed- 
ing in his every gesture. He lifted his hat with a courteous 
bow. 

“ I beg your pardon for this intrusion," he began, “but the 
storm was so fearful that I ventured in here for shelter. You 
did not hear my knock, and ’’ He paused in amazement 


A SBV'EJiJS THREAT. 


151 


as his eyes fell upon the cold white face upturned upon the 
floor. Great Heaven V he ejaculated, “she — is — dead !” 

“Yes, dead !” cried the girl, with bitter emphasis — “dead ! 

struck down upon her own hearth by the She paused 

abruptly, and, controlling herself with wonderful presence of 
mind, added: “Struck by lightning, sir — stone dead — my 
mother, all I had to care for in the great, cold, cruel world \” 

For in her heart this strange girl had decided to keep the 
hideous secret of murder, and let no one dream that aught but 
the lightning’s stroke had deprived Stella Gordon of life. The 
stranger’s handsome face wore a troubled expression. 

“Are you all alone here he cried. “I — beg your pardon, 
miss — I do not mean to be rude ; but this — is a frightful posi- 
tion for you. If you will permit me I will ride to the nearest 
village for assistance. My horse is outside ; I can go and sum- 
mon help, and return within the hour.’^ 

Lola looked up into his frank face. 

“God sent you here,” she said, simply. “Do you live in 
Waltham, sir 

“ No. I have just returned froift a long sojourn in America. 
I seek relatives somewhere in this vicinity ; perhaps you may 
know of them. My name is Vernon, Lloyd Vernon, and my 
father, Lionel Vernon, has a country-place near here.” 

Lola shook her head slowly. 

“No, sir, I know no one at all. I, my poor mother and 
our only servant (who is, unfortunately, passing the night in 
Waltham), are strangers here, quite. But if you would take the 
trouble for the sake of a friendless stranger, you might ride 
over to Waltham, and go to the little inn there, and ask for old 
Zingra; she is my only friend, now,” and sobs choked her utter- 
ance. 

“ Let be your friend cried Lloyd Vernon, impulsively, 
touched to the heart by the girl’s forlorn situation. 

He took Lola’s hand for an instant, while her dark, partietic 
eyes searched his face, with a mute appeal. 


152 


A SEVmE TlfBEAT. 


Something seemed to strike the girl’s heart like a heavy hand, 
and after that the whole world had changed to the friendless 
orphan. From that hour her heart was in Lloyd Vernon’s 
keeping, to do with it as he would. 

‘‘You are very good,” she said, simply. “My name is Lola 
Gordon ; and, I beg you, if you hold any real pity in your 
heart for my friendless position, do not speak of what you have 
witnessed here to a living soul ! Only — go to the village — if you 
keep to your right you cannot miss the way — and find old Zin- 
gra. Bring her to me, and may God in heaven bless you !” 

She pressed her red lips to the young man’s hand. A thrill 
shot through his frame, and his handsome face flushed hotly. 
Without another word he left the house, and springing upon 
his horse, flew off through the awful storm and darkness ; the 
thunder still booming sullenly and the lightning flashing over 
the sky, as though the storm-fiend could never weary of his work. 

All at once close behind him Lloyd Vernon heard the dull 
thud of horses’ feet. On, -on, nearer and nearer it came ; he 
checked his horse involuntaiily ; the night was so dark that he 
could not see a foot before him, but he paused as though wait- 
ing for something. 

Suddenly he felt a hand upon his bridle-rein, and his horse 
was pulled back all at once upon his haunches. Then the over- 
powering, sickly odor of chloroform greeted his nostrils ; he 
reeled unsteadily in the saddle, and fell to the ground without 
a word. 

Kneeling by her mother’s side, Lola clasped the cold, lifeless 
form in her arms, her red lips showering passionate kisses upon 
the ashen face. 

“Mother ! mother !” moaned the girl, in bitter anguish, her 
eyes full of stern resolve, “ I dedicate my future to avenge your 
wrongs !” 

The moments came and went, and still the poor girl crouched 
there. Outside the storm still raged ; the thunder filled the air 


A SBVEJiF THREAT. 


153 


with deafening uproar, and the lightning was terrific. The 
clock on the mantel told off another hour ; but the young man 
had not yet returned. Had he deceived her? Would he never 
come ? Unable longer to endure the suspense, and the horrible 
loneliness, Lola pressed one more kiss upon the lifeless lips, 
and springing to her feet, she opened the door and peered out 
into the night. 

Crashing thunder and blazing lightning, and in the midst of 
it all, the faint, far-off ihud of a horse's feet. In her terror and 
alarm, Lola forgot the storm and the darkness, and catching up 
a shawl from a chair where it lay, she threw it about her shoul- 
ders and dashed out into the night. Still the sound of a horse's 
iron-shod feet striking the hard earth, and still the thunder 
crashed, and the lightning illumined the black sky with sulphur- 
ous flames. 

She could endure the horrible loneliness no longer. She 
dashed down the narrow path which led to the outer gate, long- 
ing, oh, so greatly, to hear the sound of a human voice once 
more. 

The broad lightning flashes revealed to her gaze a horse stand- 
ing at the entrance ; the saddle hung by a broken girth, but he 
was riderless and alone. He neighed pitifully, and beat the 
ground with his feet. 

“My God!” moaned Lola; for an iron hand seemed to 
clutch at her heart; “what has happened! It must be his 
horse — Mr. Vernon's ! But, oh. Heaven ! where is he 

Hardly had the words passed her lips when there came a 
blinding flash of lightning, followed by thunder most terrible ; 
and prone upon her face on the wet sod the girl fell senseless, 
stunned by the fearful shock. 

She opened her eyes and gazed wildly about her. The long, 
fearful storm was over at last ; the thunder was at rest, and the 
gentle dropping of rain upon her face had restored her to con- 
sciousness. 

Slowly, slowly the recollection of the night’s horrors strayed 


154 


A SUVFRF rilREAT. 


back to the girl's memory. She sat up and put her hand to her 
brow. The lightning shock, which had deprived her of sensi- 
bility for a longer time than she could realize, had done its 
worst for Lola Gordon ; for, as she staggered slowly to her feet, 
oppressed by a strange foreboding of more sorrow yet in store 
for her, her eyes caught a glow of light against the inky black- 
ness of the sky, and, with a low moan of horror, she saw that the 
lightning which had deprived her of consciousness had stricken 
the little cottage, and it was a mass of seething flame, burned 
nearly to the ground. 

Dragging herself forward, she paused under the dripping 
branches of a tree, and watched the last flames flicker and die 
out until there was nothing left of the pretty cot — and her 
mother’s lifeless body — save a heap of charred fragments, upon 
which the slow rain fell gently. 

“God help me !” panted the girl, as she turned and dashed 
away through the blackness of the midnight. 

On, on she fled, poor, homeless creature, not knowing 
whither she' went. The darkness folded her like a mantle. She 
could not see the path, and a fine drizzly rain beat upon her un- 
covered head. Still she dashed on. All at once her foot struck 
something in the path, and with a wild cry. of pain she sank 
down upon the ground in the night and gloom, and the dark- 
ness covered her. 


CHAPTER IX. 

LA BOHEMIENNE. 

Loud, and clear, and sweet, a voice fell upon the air — a 
woman’s voice, wild and untrained, but full of wondrous possi- 
bilities — and the singer, a girl of eighteen or twenty, tripped on- 
ward over the wet footpath which led to Waltham the morning 
succeeding the occurrences just related. She was not beautiful, 
only simply pretty and audacious, in her short dress of dark- 


A SFVBBi: THREAT. 


155 


blue serge and a sailor hat, her thick walking boots protecting 
her small feet from contact with the damp earth. 

All traces of the frightful storm of the preceding night had 
disappeared, save for the wet foot-prints left by the rain, and the 
boughs which had been tossed from the wind-swept trees and 
occasionally intercepted the pathway. 

The girl turned her face up to the morning sky, and came to 
a halt with a delicious little laugh, which seemed to bubble up 
from her heart and overflow the rosy lips. As I have observed, 
she was no beauty. Her face was not at all remarkable in the 
way of complexion ; her nose was a trifle to heaven inclined ; 
her eyes were brown and brimming over with fun ; and the 
thick brown hair lay in a fringe upon the low white brow, after 
the approved fashion. 

“ i?^-lightful !” she exclaimed, drawing a long breath, as 
though striving to inhale all the pure air possible; “the 
dear, blessed country ! It makes me feel like a new creature. 
Yet how they all tried to frighten me out of coming to this 
dear old-fashioned place for a bit of rest. They said that I 
would be lonely ; why, it isn’t half a quarter as lonely to me 
as London — smoky old London in the rainy season (and when 
isn’t the rainy season there?) when I was out of employment 
for a few days and had to stay cooped up in Mrs. Dean’s 
stuffy old rooms waiting for fortune’s wheel to turn in my 
favor. Ah, well ! I’m right glad that I secured a re-engage- 
ment at the Coronet Theater, though we have got to take a 
provincial tour this summer.” 

She stooped to gather a bunch of fragrant hawthorn from a 
hedgerow, near by, advancing with a graceful little pirouette^ 
which unconsciously betrayed her calling. 

For Dora Wylde was a theater actress. Not a grand trage- 
dienne, or a recognized star in the theatrical galaxy, but a 
patient little plodder in the lower walks of her chosen pro- 
fession, appearing nightly in her small parts, dancing and 
singing, and reciting the few lines allotted her, all for the 


156 


A SUVEJiE TBBFAT. 


sake of the small salary which kept her above dependence 
and want ; for she was a lonely orphan girl, and there was 
no one in all the wide world upon whom she had any legal 
claim. 

Frank, kind-hearted Dora, or Dot, as she was generally 
called, was a favorite in the company which had secured her 
valuable services for another season. Her health had not been 
strong, and when she had proposed going to Waltham for a 
briet season of rest, leave of absence had been readily granted 
her, the company agreeing to “pick her up” as they passed 
that town on their provincial tour. 

“ How sweet the hawthorn is !” she exclaimed, aloud. “It 
is just too utterly lovely out here. But I must make haste, 
if I expect to get home in time for breakfast. Why I” and 
she paused abruptly, glancing about her with a startled ex- 
pression, “this road looks strange to me. Good gracious! 
I believe I am lost !” 

She turned as she spoke, and her eyes fell upon some- 
thing white right at the foot of a large tree, and a second 
glance revealed to her a very white face. She darted forward, 
half expecting to find a ghastly corpse lying there. But as 
she drew near, the white face was uplifted, and a weak voice 
cried piteously ; 

“For God's sake, help me 1 I have fallen, and I fear I have 
broken a limb !” 

With a stifled whistle, which was her characteristic mode of 
expressing astonishment. Dot hastened forward, and found her- 
self in the presence of a beautiful dark-eyed girl. 

“You poor child 1” she exclaimed, in a kindly tone, “how 
came you here ? Looks as if you had been out here all night. 
Can't you stand ?” 

And the kind-hearted actress put her arm about the slender 
form of the girl, and managed to assist her to her feet. But 
a fearful pain shot through the injured limb, and the poor 


A MVEBF THREAT. 


157 


girl sank upon the damp ground, while her face went ghastly 
white. 

‘‘I — I cannot stand,” she moaned, feebly. “I would give 
the world, if I could. Yes, I have been here a part of the 
night. I cannot tell you all now, but my name is Lola 
Gordon. ” 

“I am Dot Wylde,” announced the other girl, naively, 
sinking down upon a gnarled root beside her suffering com- 
panion. “I will do all I can to help you,” she went on ; 
*‘but I do not know where I am. I have missed my road, 
and am a stranger in this place.” 

“And I,” said Lola, gravely, as she glanced around upon 
the unfamiliar landscape, “ I too, am a stranger here. I had 
hoped that you could help me.” 

“A case of the blind leading the blind,” laughed Dot, her 
merry nature getting the ascendency at once. “I fancy we 
would both fall into the ditch. But, listen ! the sound of 
wheels, I am certain ! Oh, my prophetic soul !” she added, 
gayly, as around a bend in the green belt of forest came a 
vehicle, an open barouche. 

As it drew nearer they perceived that it had but a single occu- 
pant, a man somewhat past the prime of life. 

As his eyes fell upon the two forlorn females crouched at the 
foot of the tree he checked his horses and turned a look of 
mute inquiry in their direction. His eyes resting upon Lola s 
face, dilated wildly, and he caught his breath with sickening 
terror. 

Forgetting her pain the girl staggered upon her feet, and 
leaning against the tree, pallid and trembling, half dead with 
horror, she pointed one slim finger straight at the face of the 
man before her. 

“Keep back !” she panted, hoarsely. “I know you— fiend 
that you are 1 Fou are my father, and the murderer of my 
mother I But, as Heaven hears me, justice shall be done, and 
you shall expiate your crime upon the gallows 1” 


158 


A THIi£:AT. 


CHAPTER X. 

“ V ^ V I C T I S. ” 

Lloyd Vernon had returned to England in perfect ignorance 
of all that had occurred. He had become alarmed at Howard 
Ashleigh’s retarded absence, for not a word had he received 
from his friend since they had parted on the deck of the steamer 
Cambria, in New York harbor. Geraldine’s letters also had 
suddenly ceased ; his father had not written in some time, 
and, at last, thoroughly alarmed, the young man resolved to go 
home, and see for himself what was wrong. 

Arrived in London, he found the great house in Park Lane 
empty, except for the servants, who speedily informed him that 
Miss Geraldine and her father were at their country-house near 
Waltham, and this announcement was supplemented by the 
news that his sister had been absent at the place for over a year 
and a half. Hastily deciding that his informant was out of his 
senses, yet impressed, in spite of himself, with a strange vague 
alarm, Lloyd returned to his waiting carriage, and was driven 
at once to the station, where he took the train for Waltham, 
with the result already recorded. How long Lloyd Vernon re- 
mained in a state of unconsciousness he could never determine ; 
but he opened his eyes at last to find himself lying on a bed in 
utter darkness, so intense that he could not see one inch before 
him. He sprang to his feet and called aloud ; but no answer 
came back, only a long-drawn echo, with a peculiar intonation 
which reminded him of an echo in a dungeon. Although he 
was still faint and sick from the effects of the chloroform, he 
determined to find out if possible in what sort of a place he was 
confined, for a sure instinct told him that he was a prisoner. 
He moved forward, with both hands extended — on, on until 
he came in contact with a huge iron door, which was securely 


A SFVEBF THREAT. 


159 


locked on the outside. Groping onward, a short distance, he 
found that the wall of the place was solid masonry, and the floor 
was earth. Beginning at the bed he moved onward, intending 
to pass around the room, back to the point of starting. He 
had gone, perhaps, half way around the apartment, which was 
evidently a cellar, when all at once his foot slipped (he could 
never exactly understand how), and he fell down — down, it 
seemed to Lloyd Vernon in that moment of horror, as though 
he would never stop ; then there was a sudden splash, and the 
cold, dark water closed over him. 

For a moment he gave himself up for lost ; but as he arose 
to the surface, all at once he had come in contact with some-^ 
thing like a stone wall. 

“ It is a well !” he said, quickly, ‘^and I have found the side. 
Oh, Heaven ! if I can only contrive to climb to the top 

He was an expert swimmer, or it would have been difficult to 
keep from sinking. He moved his hand over the object before 
him, which he believed to be a wall, keeping himself dextrously 
afloat ; but to his astonishment, not unmixed with consterna- 
tion, the supposed wall moved readily at his touch, and half be- 
lieving himself in the dungeon of an enchanted castle, such as 
his boyhood's fancy had often pictured, he saw before him a faint 
glimmer of light. 

“ Heaven !" he panted, eagerly, “grant me hope of escape 

Fie peered through the opening with wildly dilated eyes. It 
grew gradually more distinct before him, and then he beheld 
a wide black stream of water, leading, he knew not whither ; 
but, at least, it was out in the blessed daylight. Without a mo- 
ment’s hesitation he sprang through the opening — on, on down 
the stream, until he saw, with wonder and astonishment, a green 
sloping bank. Turning in its direction he battled manfully 
with the waves, determined, though his strength was fast failing 
him, to reach the shore if possible. He was so weak that the 
exertion was a fearful one ; but on he swam — nearer, nearer, 
thank Heaven ! he is there at last ! 


160 


A MVUBU THREAT. 


Panting and breathless Lloyd Vernon drew himself up on the 
bank, and gazed eagerly about him that he might ascertain his 
whereabouts. A lov/ cry of surprise escaped his lips. What he 
saw was this. He was standing in the midst of a grove of green 
trees, the black, sluggish stream dragging itself, like a slimy ser- 
pent, along at his feet. And away in the distance a gleam of 
gray — a tall, castle-like building. 

Surprised and filled with wonder, he turned to leave the spot, 
when chancing to glance downward, his eyes caught a glimpse 
of something which drove the color from his cheek, and made 
his heart beat wildly. For upon his breast, showing plainly 
upon the snowy linen which he wore, and not obliterated by his 
involuntarily plunge-bath,' were the marks of three bloody fingers! 

He started, with an exclamation of horror, and drawing forth 
his handkerchief, attempted to remove the ghastly stains. As 
he did so, he observed a slip of linen knotted around his wrist 
— evidently a handkerchief which had been torn in two for the 
purpose of binding his hands. He examined it eagerly. It 
was of the finest linen, and bore in one corner an elaborate coat 
of arms, in dainty embroidery. 

Great Heaven V* ejaculated the young man, with a start. 

What does this mystery mean ?" 

He looked at the bit of linen attentively^ The coat of arms 
represented two mailed hands grasping a bleeding heart, and 
above it, daintily and wonderfully executed, in tiny letters, the 
motto, “ Vcs Victis.*' 

The young man shuddered. 

Whoever this titled lordling maybe," he cried, indignantly, 
“he is a villain ! But what could have prompted his malice 
against myself? Perhaps it is a case of mistaken identity." 

But there was no way of solving the mystery. He turned, 
and looked back toward the gray, castellated pile towering in 
the distance. Just beside him a great, gnarled oak lifted its 
unsightly arms in the air— an oddly shaped tree. He drew 


A SIJVEBi: THREAT. 


161 


forth a pocket-knife, and cut a rude cross upon the trunk, sur- 
mounted by the initial of his name, “V/' 

“ Vendetta 1” he muttered, with a half-smile. “I shall 
know this place, if I ever chance to cross it again. 

He turned and hastened away, following the stream in its 
downward course — for some subtle instinct warned him against 
approaching the mansion, although he knew not the name of 
its master. He hurried down the narrow path before him. 
Weak and worn with long fasting, his temples throbbed wildly, 
his heart beat with difficulty, and occasional flashes of pain shot 
through his body. An awful horror seized him. 

fear that I am going to be ill,” he exclaimed. “ Oh, to 
reach shelter somewhere ! If I could see some one, I would 
inquire the way to my father’s place. It cannot be far from 
here. ” 

But the road was very lonely, and he saw no one. It was 
getting late now, and the shades of evening were beginning to 
creep over all things. On, on he went, his footsteps growing 
more and more feeble, the pain more and more intense. 

At last, weak and exhausted with his long walk, his weary 
eyes caught a glimpse of a white cottage nestling amid a green 
bower of trees. With a low-breathed prayer of thanks, he 
turned in its direction, passed through the pretty white gate, 
clambered the steps of the vine-wreathed porch, and then fell 
in a dead swoon upon the threshold. 

The door opened softly, and a woman’s face peered out. 


CHAPTER XI. 

‘^THE DREAM IS OUT.” 

As those awful shrieks resounded, the crowd about St. 
George’s, Hanover square, grew denser, and pressed closer to 
the bridal party, until the danger of suffocation was very great. 
Various rumors prevailed, the one most affected being that a 


162 


A SSVUHJi: THREAT. 


discarded lover of the bride had suddenly appeared, and had 
attempted to take her life. The bride’s attendants gathered 
around her ; police officers were called into requisition to clear 
a pathway ; the bride, in a state of insensibility, was lifted 
into the carriage, followed by the baronet, and was driven away 
toward the great gloomy house in Park Lane. 

Lionel Vernon turned, with a ghastly face, and confronted 
the intruder, whose sudden appearance had been the signal for 
all this excitement. There was an ominous gleam in the old 
man’s deep-set eyes, and he clenched his hands convulsively 
together. 

“Come !” — he ground the word out between his close-shut 
teeth — “I have an account to settle with you !” 

He sprang into the nearest carriage ; the stranger followed 
him without a word, and it rolled away. In obedience to Ver- 
non’s command, it halted before a large hotel. His face was 
ghastly white and set in unutterable anguish; his eyes were 
dilated with horror ; his breath came and went in fitful gasps, 
and there was a cold perspiration upon his clammy brow. 

“Come!” he repeated, briefly, as he alighted from the car- 
riage and entered the hotel, the other man following silently. 

“ A private room !” commanded Vernon ; and an obsequious 
waiter ushered the two into a handsome parlor. 

Vernon closed and locked the door; then he turned and 
faced his companion. 

“ It is true, then, you are not dead,” he sneered. 

“Not dead, Lionel Vernon,” returned the other; “and I 
have come back to unmask your villainy !” 

The old man could be no paler ; he sank into a seat, and 
glared helplessly into the face of the man before him. 

“It is really true, then !” he repeated, slowly, as though his 
mind could scarcely grasp and realize the situation. “It is 
Howard Ashleigh 1” 

“You should not have intrusted your attempt upon my life 
to other hands, Mr. Vernon,” returned Howard Ashleigh, 


A THREAT. 


163 


coolly. ** Had you struck the blow yourself, I should now be 
out of your way forever. Mr. Vernon, I have come to claim 
my wife V* 

“ Your wife ? You are mad !" 

“Not at all, sir,” returned the young man, calmly. “Of 
course you understand as well as I, the value of the marriage 
ceremony which has just been performed. Geraldine Vernon 
is my wife ; she has been my wife for months ; and the mar- 
riage between herself and that wretched old man is null and 
void. Good evening, Mr. Vernon ; I am going to my wife I” 
and he moved toward the door of the room. 

Vernon struggled to his feet, panting and trembling like a 
half-dead creature, and caught the young man's arm in a vise- 
like grasp. 

“Stop !” he panted, “ or I will kill you where you stand 1” 

Howard Ashleigh wheeled about and confronted the man be- 
fore him, with pallid face and blazing eyes. 

“ Out of my way,” he said, sternly, “or I shall forget your 
gray hairs and strike you down at my feet. Unhand me, Lionel 
Vernon, or ” 

Vernon pointed to a seat with one shaking hand. 

“Listen,” he faltered ; “ listen to reason, Howard Ashleigh. 
You would not attempt to claim an unwilling bride.” 

Howard's lip curled scornfully. 

“An unwilling bride,” he repeated, calmly. “No, sir. I 
am not of the same caliber as your friend. Sir John Sydney.” 

“Then hear me,” panted the old man, hoarsely. “ I will 
admit there has been a fearful mistake committed, and ” 

“Yes,” interrupted Howard, sardonically, '‘you made a mis- 
take in not putting me out of the way with your own hands, 
instead of hiring an assassin, whose cowardly heart failed him at 
the last moment; and I made a greater mistake in appealing to 
you as possessing a shred of honor or a vestige of manhood. ” 

“A fearful mistake,” repeated Vernon, as coolly as though 
he had not heard a word that had been uttered. ‘*We bdimd 


164 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


you dead, and Geraldine — she is young, and the young must 
have some one to love, you know — learned in time to care for 
another. ” 

‘‘Meaning Sir John Sydney?” queried Howard, with a with- 
ering sneer. 

“Meaning Sir John Sydney,” returned the other, gravely. 
“ Have you never heard of love that is won by gentleness, kind- 
ness, patient devotion ? Can you not understand how Geraldine 
might have been brought to overlook the difference in years be- 
tween herself and Sir John ; and believing you dead, she al- 
lowed herself to be won — not coerced or unduly influenced, for 
the days of forced marriages are passed. ” 

Howard Ashleigh bowed his head with a groan. Then the 
words which Geraldine had spoken to him in the great bare 
room at that lonely old house, flashed back upon his memory : 
“ I hate him, Mr. Ashleigh ; I hate Sir John Sydney !” 

He glanced into the crafty face before him. 

“I do not believe you, sir,” he said, concisely. 

There is ah old adage to the effect that the devil always helps 
his own. This saying darted into Lionel Vernon’s mind at that 
moment. He recollected that in his pocket lay a small note- 
book or diary, the property of his daughter. Moved by an ir- 
resistible impulse he had abstracted the book from her escritoire^ 
and had glanced over the contents. How fortunate that he 
could now recall one certain entry in its pages. He drew it 
forth and laid it in Howard’s hand. 

“Glance over that page, my friend,” he said, quietly, indicat- 
ing a certain entry, “and afterward, if you think best, go and 
claim your wife.” 

With a strange conviction of coming evil, Howard glanced at 
the entry before him. He knew that whatever it might prove 
to be, it must be genuine, for this old man had believed him 
dead, and could not, therefore, have prepared himself for such 
an emergency as this. He saw the following lines in Geraldine’s 
own handwriting ; 


A MVEHIJ TEBBAT. 


165 


** I have promised to marry Sir John Sydney. It is best in 
every way, and I shall keep the promise that I made concerning 
him. How dearly I have loved Howard 1 But all that is 
past. God grant me the boon of forgetfulness !” 

Here the entry ceased. Howard Ashleigh bowed his head, 
and his strong frame shook with tearless sobs, for this fearful 
sorrow had wrecked his whole life. At last he lifted his face, 
white and haggard, and confronted his tormentor. 

“I wish to Heaven he cried, fiercely, “that the knife of 
the assassin whom you hired to kill me had sunk into my heart. 
Death is far preferable to the horrible fate before me. You are 
right, Mr. Vernon. I have no wish to see my wife now. She be- 
lieves me dead, and her heart, changeable and unstable as are 
the hearts of most women, has gone over to the enemy at last. 
Since she believes me dead, I am dead henceforth. No, you 
must not look so eager and hopeful. I have no intention of 
committing suicide, but my very name shall be buried in ob- 
livion. Geraldine — Lady Sydney — shall never dream that her 
lawful husband still lives.” 

Vernon laid one trembling hand upon his arm. 

“Good Heaven 1” he panted, you — you would make her a 
bigamist I I have you to thank for all this misery !” 

Howard’s face was full of contempt. He shook off the 
clinging hand. 

“ How dare you !” he cried, indignantly, “ how dare you ac- 
cuse me of the crime which you instigated? I cannot alter 
the truth. Geraldine is my wife ; but she shall never dream 
that there is aught of dishonor in what she has done. I would 
kill myself first. But woe to the hand that has wrought all this 
shame, and anguish, and misery, for the day will surely come 
which bringeth retribution !” 

He turned, and, with a look upon his haggard face which 
Lionel Vernon could never forget, he staggered over the 
threshold, the door closed behind him, and Howard Ash- 
leigh’s dream of love and happiness was over. 


166 


A SHVmB TIIBJeAT. 


CHAPTER XII. 

AFTER THE WEDDING. 

She Stood like a marble statue alone in her sumptuous cham- 
ber, from which she had gone forth only an hour before. She 
had not removed the bridal finery, and in her shimmering robe 
she was “fronting her chamber’s loneliness.” Her chains were 
forged now — heavy, galling, and unbearable ; and there lay be- 
fore her a future from which she shrank back appalled. 

Za^ Sydney! How she hated the name, hated the title! 
To her a Coronet was less than nothing, compared with the 
crown of priceless love which had been hers. Alas ! Heaven 
help her 1 had been ! For Geraldine firmly believed that the face 
upon which she had looked upon the pavement before St. 
George’s — that face so like the loved and lost — had been the re- 
sult of her own disordered fancy — an apparition conjured up 
from the grave of the past. 

The great oaken door swung slowly open, and Sir John Syd- 
ney crossed the threshold. He paused — his ferret-like eyes 
drinking in her superb beauty. But Geraldine was a different 
creature in his unwelcome presence. No tears, no sobs, no 
shrinking now. She turned, with a scornful gesture, and 
pointed to the door. 

“Sir John Sydney,” she demanded, haughtily, her voice 
clear and metallic, “by what right do you intrude upon my 
privacy ?” 

The baronet tossed his bullet head back, and his sides shook 
with silent laughter, as he sank into a satin-cushioned chair. 

“By Jove I” he ejaculated, when he was able to speak for 
merriment, “that’s good, now! Right? Why, madam, you 
are Lady Geraldine Sydney, and I am your lawful husband.” 
w falser 


A SFVHBU THREAT. 


167 


The words were spoken in a low, sepulchral tone ; yet there 
was no other presence in the chamber — no human creature 
within sight. Sir John started to his feet, and glanced wildly 
about him. All his ruddy color vanished, and his face became 
suddenly pale. Geraldine confronted him calmly. Who had 
spoken she did not know, and at that moment she cared not ; 
she had something else to think of than mysterious voices, even 
though they spoke the truth. 

“What was that.?"' faltered Sir John, in a startled tone. 
“Who spoke ?” 

“Your own guilty conscience, perhaps,” returned Geraldfne, 
coldly. 

He turned and caught her gloved hand in his own, and 
pressed it to his lips. Her face grew white as death, save for 
one lurid red spot which glowed angrily upon either cheek. 
She stripped the white glove from her hand and tore it into rib- 
bons ; then tossing the fragments upon the velvet carpet, she 
set one tiny foot upon them. 

“Dare to repeat that insult!” she panted, madly, des- 
perately — “ dare to pollute me by the pressure of your lips and, 
so help me. Heaven, I will have your life I See Sir John 
Sydney 1” 

She snatched from the marble toilet-table a tiny dagger ; 
it had a keen sharp blade, and the hilt was incrusted with 
jewels. 

< ‘ What — what do you mean ?” faltered the baronet, in broken 
accents, cowering before her like a whipped cur. “ What are 
you going to do with that knife ? Put it away, Geraldine ; it 
has an ugly look.” 

She faced him still, with her dark eyes scintillating, and the 
hand which held the weapon did not tremble. 

“ What am I going to do with it ?” she repeated, slowly. “ I 
am going to defend my honor, Sir John Sydney. If you pre- 
sume to venture one act of familiarity I shall plunge this knife 
into your heart, or my own, I do not care which. Did I not 


168 


A THREAT. 


tell you that I hate you — hate you ? Did I not swear that if you 
made me your unwilling bride you should rue it to your dying 
day ? Well, sir, I meant every word that I uttered ; I never 
break my vow. I am your wife in the eyes of the law — all that 
is beyond recall ; but keep your distance. Sir John Sydney, or 
you are a dead man. I am desperate under the burden of my 
wrongs. I have sworn to punish you, and that shall be the 
one aim of my future life."' 

As the words passed her lips her eyes fell upon the window 
at her side, and a low frightened cry escaped her ; for there 
pressed close against the pane, was a white, haggard face, the 
wild, dilated eyes watching her intently. 

It was the face of Howard Ashleigh. 


CHAPTER XHI. 

LADY VENETIA. 

'We left Lola Gordon with her new friend, the actress, under 
the tree on the road-side, weak and suffering acutely from the 
effects of the sprain which she had received, yet struggling to 
her feet to hurl denunciation upon the man who listened in 
unfeigned astonishment. Ere the words had scarcely passed 
her lips, he struck his horses sharply, and the barouche 
rolled away. He cast no backward glance, but his face had 
grown exceedingly white, and the gloved hand which held the 
reins trembled violently. As soon as the two girls were alone. 
Dot Wylde turned her astonished face toward her companion. 

“Great heavens!" she ejaculated, “what in the world 
possessed you to talk in that way to that man ? Who is he ? 
Whoever he is he looked awfully cut up at what you said. Why 
it sounded like a scene from a drama." 

Lola’s face grew ashen white. 

“ That man is my father," she said, in a low tone ; “but as 


A SFVJEBS: THBEAT. 


169 


surely as I live I will bring him to the punishment that he 
deserves. Dot, you are so kind and friendly to me, I feel as if 
I had known you long. Sit down here and listen, for I am 
going to tell you my story.” 

Delighted at the prospect of hearing a narrative which might 
possibly turn out to be as romantic as the dramas in which she 
was wont to take part, the little actress seated herself and 
listened with wrapt attention while Lola rehearsed her sad 
story — all except the fact that her mother had been murdered. 
This Lola Gordon chose to keep secret. When she had finished 
her dreary recital. Dot seized her hand and gave it a little 
squeeze. 

Then you have no home and nowhere to go queried the 
actress, a great tear standing in each of her brown eyes. 

Lola shook her head despondently. 

“Dear, dear !” cried Dot, sympathetically ; “and your ankle 
sprained so badly ; actually nowhere to go. Lola, you shall 
come home with me — that’s if I can manage to get you there. 
I could scarcely carry you, and” — with a melancholy sigh — “I 
forgot — I have lost my way. ” 

The prospect did present a dreary outlook ; but Lola saw 
only the kindness which prompted the girl’s words. She bent 
her head and kissed Dot’s brow. 

“You are very, very good,” she said, softly, “and God will 
surely reward you. ” 

‘ ‘ Good /” 

Dot threw back her brown head and laughed merrily. 

“/good ? Why, Lola, dear, I am an actress ; and the par- 
son up at Waltham church, where I went last Sunday, preached 
a long sersom against the sin of play-acting and play-going, de- 
nouncing all actors as demoralized creatures, whose footsteps 
lead down to the gates of— well, a place unmentionable to ears 
polite. I believe he thinks that none of our profession need 
ever hope to be saved ; consequently, all honest endeavor on 
our part is so much wasted time. Yet / would be ashamed to 


170 


A JSjSVBUJS TJIBUAT. 


be as uncharitable as that servant of God, as he calls himself. 
Hark ! What s that ?” 

For a clear, shrill whistle floated on the air, then footsteps, 
and around a bend in the road a lad of perhaps sixteen appeared, 
and as his eyes fell upon the disconsolate pair under the tree 
he started, and a smile illumined his broad, sunburned face. 

“Good-morning, Miss Dot!” he began, with an odd attempt 
at a bow. 

Dot sprang to her feet with a cry of delight. 

“Oh, Bob,” she cried, joyfully, “you’re as welcome as sun- 
shine ! It is quite providential that you came this way. This 
young lady has hurt herself; her ankle is sprained, I think, and 
I am going to take her home with me ; but we’ve lost our way. 
Can’t you take us home. Bob 

The boy looked thoughtful. 

“If the young lady is lame. Miss Dot,” he returned, “I’d 
better go get the wagon and bring you both. ” 

“Very well. Bob, you’re a jewel! But please make haste, 
for we are awfully tired sitting out here. A contemplation of the 
beauties of nature is all very well, but it is apt to pall upon one 
when one gets too much of it before breakfast.” 

With another awkward bow, Bob started off, while Dot ex- 
plained to Lola that he was the son of the widow with whom 
she boarded while in Waltham. 

“She’s a nice, dear, motherly body,” the actress added, “ and 
she’ll make you welcome for my sake. ” 

“You are very good,” repeated Lola, “and I can see no way 
to repay you at present.” 

“Oh, bother!” cried Dot, hastily. “It’s just too awfully 
ridiculous to hear you go on so. I esteem it a privilege to help 
you ; you look like a lost princess in disguise. ” 

Lola laughed ; the first laugh that had passed her lips in many 
an hour. There was something so infectious in Dot’s gayety 
that she felt as one feels when the storm-clouds part in the sky 
and one bright, dazzling ray of sunlight streams in broadly. 


A SJEVHJiJS: mBEAT. 


171 


In a short time Bob reappeared with a light wagon, painted a 
vivid crimson, to which was attached a diminutive donkey — 
“ all ears” as Dot declared. 

The two girls were assisted into the vehicle, and Bob drove 
away, very proud of the honor assigned him. They reached 
the neat cottage of the Widow Brown on the outskirts of Walt- 
ham, and were received by that worthy lady with unfeigned 
cordiality. She would do anything in the world for Dot, and 
the sight of Lola, so beautiful and helpless, aroused her deep- 
est sympathy. Lola’s sprain was attended to, and in a few 
hours she was greatly relieved ; by the next morning she was 
nearly herself again. 

It was at the close of the second day after Lola was com- 
fortably installed at Mrs. Brown’s. She was lying upon the 
sofa in the neat sitting-room, when there came the sound of a 
heavy fall upon the cottage porch. Dot rushed to the door, 
and there, lying upon the threshold apparently lifeless, lay the 
form of a man whom Lola Gordon had thought never to meet 
again — the man who had her heart in his keeping. 

* 5|e * * * ♦ ♦ 

Lloyd Vernon opened his eyes in his right mind once more. 
For three long, dreary weeks he had lain at the very door of 
death; but the weary feet did not stray through the mystic 
portal, and he came back to life again. A sweet face was 
bending over his pillow— a face which somehow was strangely 
familiar to him. Memory busied herself for a few moments, 
and then he stretched out a wasted hand. 

“Good heavens !” he faltered, feebly, “am I dreaming, or 
is it really you, Miss Gordon 

Lola pressed the thin, white hand. 

“Really I, Mr. Vernon !” she answered. “You have been 
very ill, and must be quiet. Take your medicine, and go to 
sleep ; when you are stronger I will explain everything.” 

He obeyed her like a tired child, and soon sank into a quiet 


172 


A SEVERE THREAT, 


slumber. When he awoke again Lola was still beside him, 
and all that had occurred since their last meeting was ex- 
plained. He closed his eye? wearily. 

“I would like to see my father,” he said, at length. 

“Your father is in London, Mr. Vernon,” returned Lola. 
^We have taken pains to ascertain his whereabouts. He 
went there some weeks since to be present at your sister’s wed- 
ding.” 

Lloyd’s dark eyes flew open with incredulous surprise. 

“My — sister’s — wedding!” he gasped, brokenly. “Oh, 
no 1 I do not understand you !” 

“She was married to Sir John Sydney, of Sydney House, 
near Waltham,” explained Lola. 

Ere the astonished young man could form a reply, some one 
tapped at the door of the sick-room. 

“Come in I” cried Lola’s clear, sweet voice. 

The knob turned slowly, the door opened, and an involun- 
tary cry of surprise issued from Lola Gordon’s lips. There 
upon the threshold stood a strange lady — a delicate, fairy-like 
creature, with a peach-blossom face, and eyes like the blue of a 
summer sky ; and golden clouds of hair falling in loose waves 
upon her graceful shoulders. It would have taken an astute 
, physiognomist to peer beneath the beautiful surface and detect 
the claws under the velvet ; the hard, glassy glitter which some- 
times crept into the unclouded azure eyes ; and the expression 
of supreme cruelty which could take possession of the perfect 
face. Yet there was something in the atmosphere about this 
woman which was as suggestive as are the black clouds piled 
upon the sky yonder, that we are about to be treated to a 
thunder-storm. The sick man turned uneasily, as the door 
opened, and his dazed eyes fell upon the lady’s face. His own 
grew ghastly — he caught his breath with a low gasp of pain, or 
horror, and lifted one hand as though to keep her away. 

“ Venetia !” his white lips faltered. 

She darted forward, and with a tragic gesture fell upon her 


A SFVFBi: TUBUAT. 


173 


knees at his bedside. Lola waited to see no more ; and, fol- 
lowed closely by Dot, she left the sick-room. In the tiny 
entry outside the door Dot slipped her hand through Lola’s 
arm. 

“ Did you ever?” she panted, fiercely; “looks like she has 
a right to be there 1 Lola, she’s a cat !” snapped the little 
actress, defiantly, and waxing warm with her subject — “a spite- 
ful cat I and — I don’t know how much worse ! I detest that 
woman — I distrust her ! What right has she here ? I know 
her name — she’s Lady Venetia Chandos, one of the grandees 
who stick up their noses at every honest working woman, and 
then goes and does a thousand times worse than earning a 
living !” 

Lola turned aside to hide her own tragic face. 

“She is Mr. Vernon’s betrothed wife, I am sure,” she said, 
softly, and speaking as calmly as though she were not suffering 
with horrible despair. 

“ Humph !” 

Dot turned suddenly, and drawing Lola’s head down, kissed 
her tenderly. 

“There isn’t a man in the world worth worrying about, 
dear !” she cried, warmly. 

Lola made no reply, and they went into Mrs. Brown’s neat 
parlor to await the next move in the game. 

After a time, there came the swish of silken skirts, and my 
lady appeared, trailing her azure silk robe over the bare but 
spotless floor. She walked straight up to Lola and paused be- 
fore her. Her beautiful, flower-like face was uplifted, but 
there was a steely glint in the depths of her deep-blue eyes, 
and the rosy lips were compressed in a narrow line. 

“Are you the person (oh, the awful superciliousness in the 
icy, thoroughbred voice !) “ the person who — who has attended 
my — Mr. Vernon during his illness ?” 

Lola’s little head was crested proudly, and her magnificent 
eyes flashed with superb scorn. 


174 


A 8EVERF. THREAT. 


''I have assisted in the care of l\Ir. Vernon," she returned, 
quite as icily. Have you anything to say, madam 

Lady Venetia drew forth her purse, a tiny toy of blue velvet 
and pearls ; opening it she extracted a sovereign and placed it 
in Lola’s nerveless hand. It was as though she had suddenly 
struck the girl a stinging blow. Lola’s eyes dilated widely, her 
face became ghastly white, her breath came in panting gasps, 
and she shuddered as though a chill breeze had passed over her. 
She turned quickly and flung the money through the open 
window. 

dare yovL insult me.?” she panted. “Lady Venetia 
Chandos, I will pay you back for this some day, though it cost 
me my life !” 

And she fled from the room, as though she dare not trust 
herself to remain longer. 

Lady Venetia lifted her innocent blue eyes, full of wonder, 
to where Dot stood watching her with moody gaze. 

“ Dear me!” cried my lady, “what an odd person, to be 
sure I What does she mean ? I suppose she is one of the 
actresses, who, I am told, are stopping at Waltham ; low crea- 
tures, of course, all of them ! Not a woman among them is 
respectable, and ” 

“ Stop, my lady !” 

Dot’s tiny form was drawn up to its full height, her brown 
eyes were blazing with a dangerous fire ; for a moment she 
looked like a queen of tragedy. Ah, could Dot have carried 
that gesture, attitude, tone upon the stage, she need no longer 
essay her small parts, but aspire to the career of a “star.” 

“ Lady Chandos I” she said, in a ringing, indignant voice, 
“ what right have you to speak in that way of honest women — 
quite as respectable, and virtuous, and good as yourself? How 
dare you judge all by a pitiful few ? Madam, / am an actress, 
and I am proud of my profession. My life is just as pure as 
your own, my hands just as clean of all wrong-doing. I would 


A THREAT. 


175 


rather he a play-actor than a miserable sham, spending my time 
trying to secure a rich husband !” 

Every word that she uttered was as clear and incisive as a 
knife-thrust. The woman before her quailed beneath the 
withering scorn in her eyes. 

*‘Out of this house this instant!” panted Dot, furiously, 
carried away by the intensity of her anger. “ Actress as I am, 
I would never intrude myself, alone, into a sick man’s chamber ; 
for I believe, my lady, that you have no more right to be at his 
side than has the sweet young lady whom you have just insulted, 
and who has helped nurse him for charity’s sake. ” 

For, leal and true. Dot would keep her friend’s secret, which 
she had guessed — a secret to the last. 

“No right.?” 

Lady Venetia’s voice was exceedingly low, but there was a 
triumphant ring in it. 

“No right?” she repeated, slowly; “then ask Lloyd Vernon, 
since you are so deeply interested ; ask Lloyd Vernon, I say, 
what Lady Venetia Chandos is to him.” 

She swept her silken skirts through the door over the pretty 
porch, on to the carriage waiting at the gate — a handsome car- 
riage, with a coronet upon it, and a footmen in gorgeous livery 
sunning himself outside. A short pause ; then the low rumble 
of wheels, and the sun came out from behind a pile of black 
clouds, as though an incubus had been lifted. 

Pale and stern, Dot Wylde stood watching the unwelcome 
visitor depart ; then, with a resolute face, she turned and en- 
tered the room where the sick man lay. 

“Mr. Vernon,” she said, softly, bending over his white face, 
which had somehow grown suddenly whiter, “ pardon my bold- 
ness, but I have a good reason for asking you a question. It is 
this — what is Lady Venetia Chandos to you ?” 

Lloyd closed his eyes, and turned his white face to the wall. 

‘ ‘ Heaven help me !” he muttered, under his breath. “ Lady 
Venetia is — my wi/eT 


176 


A SJEVmB THREAT. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A WICKED woman’s WILES. 

Lady Venetia’s carriage whirled away down the long green 
country road, on until mile after mile was accomplished, paus- 
ing at last before a pair of high-arched iron gates in a grim 
stone wall. The gates flew open as if by magic ; the carriage 
entered, and bowled slowly up a broad avenue between the rows 
of whispering limes. Lady Venetia leaned her golden head 
back upon the azure satin cushions, and closed her eyes. At 
last the carriage stopped before an irregular, massive building 
of gray stone. My lady was assisted to alight, and she ascended 
the marble steps of the mansion and entered a magnificent en- 
trance hall. 

An elderly lady, in rustling gray silk, and a point lace cap on 
her gray puffs, met her with open arms. 

“ Home at last, my dear Venetia!” she cried, kissing the 
low white brow. “ Tve missed you very much.” 

She opened the door of a pretty blue and silver room near, 
and entered, followed by my lady. As soon as they were 
alone. Lady Venetia tossed off her hat, and, throwing herself 
into a chair, burst into a flood of tears. The elder lady paused 
before her in consternation. 

** Venetia r she cried, aghast. 

My lady glanced up. 

‘‘Aunt Esther,” she said, slowly, “I have been to see 
Lloyd.” 

Aunt Esther held up her hands in genuine surprise. 

“Alone?” she queried, reproachfully. 

“Alone !” returned my lady, her blue eyes flashing angriSjr; 
“have I not the right? Aunt Esther, he is my husband — my 
unwilling husband, who hates me as thoroughly as I (fool that 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


177 


I am) love him ; but he is my husband, after all — nothing can 
alter that fact I" 

And Lady Venetia buried her face in her white jeweled 
hands. 

• Aunt Esther looked thoughtful. 

“I never could understand your infatuation, Venetia,” she 
observed at length. “ Here you are, the orphan daughter of a 
peer, with perfect beauty and an immense fortune. Young as 
you are, hundreds have knelt at your shrine, my dear ; yet you 
turn blindly from them all. Why, you might have worn a 
ducal coronet, Venetia, for the Duke of Knight was half mad 
about you ; yet you had eyes for no one but a miserable civil 
engineer like Lloyd Vernon. Yet foolish passions like that are 
often ephemeral, and yours would have died a natural death but 
for your own mad perversity. You followed this handsome 
dark-eyed Vernon to America. True, no one but myself sus- 
pects the dreadful truth, for the world believes that we merely 
crossed the water for a pleasure tour, and knows nothing of our 
accidentally (?) meeting Vernon in San Francisco ; even the boy 
himself did not dream that the accident was beautifully de- 
signed. It was but a chapter of accidents, after all,” continued 
the old lady, musingly, while a sarcastic smile crossed her thin 
lips for an instant ; “ for, once in America, you threw yourself 
upon Lloyd Vernon’s pity (Venetia, I was in the adjoining 
room at the hotel, and heard every word of your interview) ; 
and you told him the simple truth — of your mad, unreasoning 
passion. You, Lady Venetia Chandos, descendant of a long 
line of noblemen, stooped to tell a beggarly nobody that you 
loved him — loved him so dearly that your life was a barren 
waste without him, and threatened to end it unless he showed 
you some affection. Poor boy ! he was dazzled by your won- 
drous beauty ; the siren’s spell was upon him, and, acting from 
the impulse of a tender heart and an honorable nature, he took 
the leap which, if I mistake not, he is repenting now in dust 
and ashes. He made you his wife. You were willing to bury 


178 


A THREAT. 


title and every worldly advantage in the grave of oblivion, just 
for a few hours of rapture.” 

Aunt Esther paused, and her keen gray eyes went over the 
drooping figure before her, the flower-like face hidden still in 
the white, jeweled hands. 

“How absurdly happy you were,” the old lady went on, 
slowly, “for a little while ! Ah, me ! Venetia, you may sur- 
round that one picture with a sunny halo, and enshrine it in 
the inner sanctuary of your heart ; for, if I mistake not, you 
will never see such happiness again. We kept your secret 
well, and down on the sloping coast, not far from the ‘ Golden 
Gate,’ you found your pretty Eden. But there was a serpent 
in Paradise, you know, and the ill-omened reptile found you 
even there. How well I remember the dark and gloomy 
morning when the blow fell that bereft you of his love ! It 
never was love. Lady Venetia — never aught but passion ; and 
the day of which I speak saw that ill-omened passion in tatters. 
You remember it all, for you can never forget it — how he 
overheard an indiscreet conversation, and learned what you had 
done — knew that your errand to America had been just that — 
to marry Lloyd Vernon. Had he loved you truly, Venetia, I 
firmly believe that he would have overlooked your apparent 
immodesty and unwomanliness. Men love flattery, and noth- 
ing flatters a man so surely as the knowledge that a pretty 
woman entertains a secret preference for his lordship. But the 
truth came out, and Lloyd Vernon’s imitation of love showed 
its counterfeit side. He told you plainly, harshly, brutally, 
that he held only disgust in his heart for you — that he would 
never live with you as your husband ; he ordered you out of his 
sight — back to England — forbade any attempt at corre- 
spondence, and, with all proofs of the marriage safe in his own 
possession, he swore that you should never be acknowledged as 
his wife. Yes, you may well weep, Lady Venetia Chandos, to 
think that you have thrown your happiness away like this, and 
turned your buck upon all that might have been prosperity and 


A SEVEUE THREAT. 


179 


peace — all for naught I And now — we find that he has re- 
turned to his native land, and you, you forget your pride, for- 
get the race from which you descend, forget your own self- 
respect, and — find his whereabouts — and go to see him ! 
Venetia, my heart is so full of shame and the burden of this 
disgrace, that I long to die !” 

Lady Venetia sprang to her feet, with the mien and gesture 
of an outraged empress. Her face was snowy white ; her blue 
eyes glinted like steel mirrors ; her long gold hair, all afloat, 
had the look of yellow serpents clinging about her slim, grace- 
ful figure ; one white hand, shimmering with diamonds and 
rubies, was uplifted, with a tragic gesture. 

“ Hear me V she panted, hoarsely. “That man has scorned 
me — he shall live to be scorned ! He has disowned me — the 
day shall come when he shall grovel in the dust at my feet, and 
plead, in bitter remorse and agony, for me to take him back to 
my heart again ! I know where to strike ; I can see the truth ; 
He spurned me from his side to-day, because — listen to me. 
Aunt Esther ! — he has eyes and thought for no one save the 
black-eyed witch who bends above his pillow, and tends him 
with the care that a wife bestows upon her husband. I 
know how to strike, and, when the time comes, I will strike — 
through her !” 

She ceased, overcome by the force of her own intense 
passion, and sinking upon a chair, she buried her face in her 
hands. 

The old lady bent above her, and pressed her lips to the 
golden hair. 

“Venetia, my child,” she murmured, softly, - “I love you 
dearly ; I will help you all that lies in my power. Together 
we will aim at this woman who stands in your path— who dares 
to come between you and Lloyd Vernon ; and we will strike 
through her heart to his breast !” 

The twilight shadows were gathering, and now they dark- 
ened the room with their gray, ghostly presence. Some- 


180 


A SJEVHHB THREAT, 


where — away at Waltham — a death-bell began to toll slowly for 
the soul of some poor unfortunate whose pilgrimage here was 
done, and amid the gloomy shadows Lady Venetians compact 
of evil was made. 


CHAPTER XV. 

“back from the grave I" 

At that moment, in the gray, dusky shadows, Lola returned 
to Lloyd Vernon’s side. Her face was very pale, the large dark 
eyes were full of brooding shadows, and as she bent over his 
pillow for a moment — a great burning tear fell like a pearl 
from her long dark lashes upon his white brow. His eyes flew 
open, and a red spot leaped up like a flame upon his cheeks. 
He caught her hand, and pressed it against his lips. 

“ Lola ! Lola !” he whispered, “ my darling, my own I” 

“Lola! Lola!” 

Dot’s shrill treble floated in at the open window. 

“Where are you, dear?” she continued. “Come into the 
garden, please. I’m here at the gate alone.” 

Lloyd dropped the little hand which lay trembling in his thin 
palm, and with a low moan turned wearily away. 

“Heaven forgive me!” he murmured, faintly, and Lola 
caught the sound of the broken words, “what a villain I am ! 
Go,” he went on, half rising from the pillows, and pointing one 
thin finger toward the open door. “Go, Lola, you are break- 
ing my heart !” 

An hour later the stars shone down on Lola Gordon, but just 
the ghost of her former self Pallid as a snow-wreath, with 
dark circles of suffering about her beautiful eyes, and a stern, 
resolute air which had hitherto been a stranger to the girl. For 
Dot had told her all. 

“I must go away, Dot,” she said, after a moment’s silence. 


A SIJVmF THREAT. 


181 


must leave here and seek for employment of some kind ; 
but first, I must find old Zingra, and let her know all that has 
occurred. But, oh, what shall I do? How can I earn my 
bread ?” 

“You shall go on the stage with me,” cried Dot, eagerly. 
“With such a voice as you possess Vm certain you need never 
know want. And, oh, Lola, you will be ever so much higher 
up than I, for you are fitted for the life.” 

Lola’s eyes grew bright. 

“Am I ?” she cried, with eager haste. “Z><? you think that 
I can ever become a successful actress. Dot? Oh, Fd give a 
dozen years of my life to succeed. Let me tell you, dear, I 
want to learn to act, and to use the stage disguises. I have an 
object — a reason for the desire — and some day I may explain. 
Dot, look at me well. Do you really think it possible for me 
to don a disguise in which you would fail to recognize me ? Tell 
me. Dot.” 

Dot nodded her head slowly like a Chinese Mandarin, then 
suddenly slipping away, she left Lola and entered the house. 

It was getting quite dusky in the grounds now, but soon the 
moon began to climb its pearly, winding stair, and suddenly a 
pale light was poured like burnished silver over the surrounding 
objects. Still Lola lingered, loth to leave the pretty garden, 
shrinking from a return to the house, where he lay, so near her, 
yet separated more utterly than though he lay in his coffin. A 
footfall on the garden walk startled her, and glancing up 
Lola saw, coming rapidly toward her, a queer-looking figure. 
A bent old woman, tiny and wrinkled, with bands of silvery 
hair showing below an old-fashioned cap, and with immense 
steel-bowed spectacles over her eyes. She leaned heavily upon 
a huge oaken staff, and walked with halting gait. She paused 
as she caught sight of Lola. 

“Good-evenin’, honey,” she began, in a queer, cracked voice. 

Lola returned the salutation. 

“ Did you wish to see any one, madam?” she asked. 


182 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


The old woman scanned her face attentively through the 
spectacles. 

“Yes, I wanted to see — oh, Lola, it’s too funny. If you 
could see your own face. Ha ! ha !” 

And away went the wig and spectacles, the bent form was 
straightened, and Dot Wylde stood revealed. 

“Do you believe now/’ she cried, “ that there is any disguise 
that cannot be readily penetrated ? Why, this is one of the very 
simplest. I tell you, my dear, if you have any particular reason 
for wishing to disguise yourself I can show you how to do it so 
that your dearest friend would fail to recognize you. Good 
gracious !” — in a rueful tone — “some one is coming. Who can 
it be?" 

For a man had entered the outer gate, and was coming 
slowly up the garden path. Dot, not caring to be seen in her 
grotesque attire, slipped into a rose arbor near, while Lola 
paused irresolutely under a lime tree which grew beside the 
walk. The man drew nearer, and the pale, clear moon-rays 
falling athwart his face, disclosed the saturnine features of Sir 
John Sydney. He bowed stiffly as his glance fell upon Lola. 

“Mr. Lloyd Vernon is here, is he not?" queried the bar- 
onet. “I must see him at once. His sister. Lady Sydney, is 
ill, perhaps dying." 

Lola stepped from the shadow of the lime-tree and turned 
her solemn eyes upon his face. She was all in white, and in 
the radiant moonbeams looked unearthly. Sir John’s face 
grew pallid, and he shrank away, putting both his arms out, as 
though to drive her back. 

“Mercy!" he groaned, feebly, “it is she — Slella — come 
back from the grave to haunt me. " 

At that moment a dark figure rushed forward from the shadow 
of the cottage, there was the fearful report of fire-arms, and a 
wild shriek rent the air ; then all was still. 


A S£V£Bi: THREAT. 


183 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A GOLDEN SERPENT. 

The shrieks resounding upon the silence of the night brought 
Mrs. Brown from the cottage, and by the light of the radiant 
moon-rays a dreadful spectacle was revealed. There, upon the 
green grass, in the tiny rose-arbor, lay poor Dot, in her grotesque 
attire, one arm hanging helplessly at her side, and bleeding 
profusely from the effects of a pistol-shot. 

As the report of the pistol, followed by the awful cries, broke 
the stillness of the night. Sir John Sydney turned and fled from 
the spot as though pursued by avenging spirits. 

Lola flew to the poor girl’s side, and, assisted by the horror- 
stricken Bob, lifted the head of her kind friend upon her 
arm. 

‘*Dot — Dot!” she cried, wildly, “for Heaven’s sake speak 
to me 1 Don’t stare into my face in that awful way ; it breaks 
my heart. Oh, Heaven, she is dead I” 

For the white face lying back upon Lola’s arm grew ghastly, 
and a dazed expression stole into the eyes of the wounded 
girl. 

Mrs. Brown, with creditable forethought, rushed into the 
house and into Lloyd Vernon’s room ; seizing a flash of brandy 
from the table, and without pausing to answer the sick man’s 
frantic questions as to what had occurred, she rushed back to 
Dot’s side, first hastily dispatching Bob, on his fleet-footed 
pony, for the nearest physician. Then Mrs. Brown forced some 
of the brandy between the girl’s white lips, and after a time Dot 
revived. 

“What is the matter.?” she gasped, faintly; then, with 
a frightened shudder, she hid her pallid face upon Lola’s 
bosom. 


184 


A SJeVBBIJ TIIBJSAT. 


‘‘Oh!” she moaned, in piteous accents, “I saw it all. It 
is only my arm, I think, that has been hurt ; and it might have 
been a human life.” 

Dot lifted her uninjured hand, and grasped Lola’s arm. 

“Dear Lola,” she said, softly, and speaking with an effort, 
“ I must tell you now, for if I die ” — there was a little gulp, as 
the actress choked down a sob — for she was very young, you 
see, and death looks grim indeed to youth — “if — if I die,” she 
went on, sadly, “you would never learn the truth ; and, Lola, 
you ought to know all. You have a terrible enemy, dear — 
some one who hates you with a bitter hatred ; for, listen, Lola 
— indeed I am telling you the simple truth — that shot was not 
intended for me, but for you. Let me tell you all. While 
you were speaking to that man, I chanced to turn my body, 
and I saw standing there, in the shadow of the cottage, a dark 
figure; not a tall person, but so enveloped in a long, black 
cloak that it was impossible to identify the person ; but, Lola, 
I believe, from the bottom of my heart, that it was a woman. 
I watched her closely — closely ; she turned her head, and I saw 
that there was a black mask over her face ; and the hood of the 
cloak, which was like a domino, was drawn up over her hair. 
I think that the entire disguise was merely a plain black domino, 
such as is worn at masquerades, for the purpose of concealing 
one’s identity. But I could see the eyes which shone through 
the holes in the mask ; and vengeful, wicked eyes they were, 
Lola. The figure stood quiet for a time watching you — oh, so 
intently — then I saw a hand uplifted, and the silver barrel of a 
tiny revolver glistened in the moonlight. I understood the 
situation intuitively, for, Lola, the weapon was aimed directly 
at you. I, hidden in the arbor, could see distinctly without 
being observed. I saw the revolver pointed — saw a finger press 
the trigger, and I rushed forward, throwing up my arms invol- 
untarily. My intention was to warn you ; but, you see, I was 
between you and the would-be assassin, and the bullet lodged 
in my arm. But, Lola, it might have taken your life.” 


A SEVFHF THREAT 


185 


Lola could not speak. Such self-abnegation — to risk her 
own life for the sake of a girl but lately a stranger, touched 
Lola Gordon inexpressibly. She bent her head, and kissed the 
white lips of the wounded girl. 

“ Heaven bless you. Dot she whispered. The devotion 
of my life will not be enough to repay you. 

Lola paused with a cry of alarm, for she saw that Dot had 
fainted again. With Mrs. Brown’s assistance the poor girl was 
borne into the house, and placed upon her bed. The physician 
arrived then, and the ball was, fortunately, soon extracted. He 
pronounced the wound not necessarily serious, and, leaving 
minute directions, took his departure. Then Lola stole away 
to the room where Lloyd Vernon lay, for she knew that he was 
fearfully troubled and excited in regard to the mysterious occur- 
rence, of which Mrs. Brown had ventured to give him a brief 
outline. 

Sitting at the bedside, Lola answered all his questions, ex- 
plaining the sad affair as concisely as possible, lest she excite 
him too much. Lloyd listened with eager interest while Lola 
repeated all that Dot had told her. 

Presently Bob came into the room, his face pale with sup- 
pressed excitement, in one hand a glittering object. He held 
it up in the light of the lamp which burned upon the table, his 
homely features working convulsively. 

“See, Miss Lola!” he cried. 

Lola sprang forward in eager haste, and took the gleaming 
object in her hand. It was a gold bracelet, in the form of a 
serpent, covered with glistening emerald scales, and with two 
glaring ruby eyes. Lola’s glance, as she lifted her face, asked 
a fearful question. 

Bob hastened to answer it. 

“ You see. Miss Lola,” he explained, “ I caught a glimpse 
o’ a dark-lookin’ figger out in the shrubbery ; so I says to my- 
self, ril foller and see who it is ; for — no matter what’s what — 
that person ain’t no earthly business here. So, I slipped up, 


186 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


soft like, and followed after. The dark figger just seemed to 
skim over the ground, and flying along in its haste, the cloak 
which covered it caught in a bush. The person came to a dead 
halt, and I heard some mutterin’ words, butcouldn’t clearly un- 
derstand. Then the figger started on again, but as it did so, 
clank comes somethin’ down on the walk. I springs out o’ the 
bushes and catches it up, and brings it in here — and there it is.’’ 

And Bob’s round eyes gleamed triumphantly. 

Lloyd Vernon’s earnest gaze was fastened upon the golden 
bauble which Lola held. He put out one thin hand, and, 
taking the bracelet, turned it slowly around. 

He lifted his eyes to the girl’s face. 

Bob had retired. 

“ Lola, ” he panted, a strange excitement in his eyes, and 
with utmost beseeching in his tone, “ I beg you as a favor to 
say nothing — do nothing to ascertain the identity of the guilty 
wretch. Lola, darling” — the word seemed to fall from his white 
lips unaware — “ I ask you to do this for my sake.” 

She knew then that there was a guilty secret to conceal. And 
she caught her breath with a gasp of horror, fcr she remembered 
now that she had seen the bracelet before ; she had seen it upon 
the round, white arm of my Lady Venetia! 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A PLOT IS LAID. 

“Give the medicine according to directions. If there is no 
change for the better in two hours, send for me.” 

Doctor Denzil issued his orders gravely— his face pale and 
anxious. Then he bowed himself out of the sumptuous cham- 
ber where Geraldine, Lady Sydney, lay tossing to and fro, and 
raving in wild delirium. The time for an expected crisis was 
nigh ; after that he could tell if there was hope for her life. 

At the door ot the sick-room the good doctor paused. 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


187 


“Sir John,” he said, as he caught sight of the baronet's 
bulky figure coming down the long corridor, “is there no 
responsible person whom you can procure to nurse Lady 
Sydney ? The women who are with her now are well enough, 
but I would rather see her in charge of an intelligent person, if 
possible, for all now depends upon the way in which she is 
nursed. 

“I know of no such one as you describe,” returned the 
baronet. “ If you chance to find a nurse suitable you will do 
me a favor by securing her at any price.” 

And then the baronet bowed the physician out to his carriage. 
Dr. Denzil went straight back to his office at Waltham, and sat 
down to muse over the case, and how Lady Sydney's life hung 
by the frailest of threads, when suddenly a faint tap on the door 
of the office aroused him, and in response to his “come in,” 
a little old woman made her appearance. Gray, and wrinkled, 
and bent, she was, with huge spectacles hiding her eyes ; but 
spotlessly neat, and with an air of refinement. 

“I have called to apply for the situation of nurse to Lady 
Sydney,” she began, in a low, fluttered tone. “Is the vacancy 
yet filled, doctor .?” 

Dr. Danzil started. It seemed like an answer to his prayer ; 
for the worthy physician had been more troubled upon the sub- 
ject than any one could have imagined. He set himself to 
work to examine the applicant as to her capability, and her 
answers pleased him. He found her sensible, with strong 
nerves, and practical common sense — a born nurse. The con- 
sequence was that Martha Winters, as she called herself, was 
immediately engaged, and sent up to Sydney House. 

In her lofty chamber, hung with rose-colored silk, with rare 
pictures on its tinted walls, and a few bits of statuary, worth 
their weight in gold ; with rich lace draperies at the long win- 
dows, and a carpet of softest white velvet, strewn with pink rose- 
buds — a very bower of beauty — lay Geraldine, Lady Sydney, 


188 


A SEVEEE THREAT. 


tossing among her lace-covered pillows, in the grasp of the 
fever-fiend. 

When Geraldine had caught a glimpse of that white face 
pressed against the window-pane on her miserable wedding- 
day, her reason for the time had given way. For it was 
Howard Ashleigh. He could not resist the temptation to look 
upon her face once more before he should turn his back 
upon London, and return to America and his works, where 
henceforth he would bury himself from the knowledge of his 
fellow-men. 

“I will look upon her face once,” he had said to himself, 
“and then I will go away forever.” 

And this was the result. Geraldine had caught a glimpse of 
the pale, agonized face, with its wild, despairing eyes, and 
shriek after shriek had burst from her pale lips, and she had 
fallen to the floor in strong convulsions. Toward morning she 
had grown easier ; the succeeding hours brought a settled 
apathy, and she lay like a statue. But the great house in Park 
Lane had suddenly become hateful to her ; she insisted on 
leaving London and going back to her father’s old country- 
house, near Waltham. Sir John listened to her demand for 
removal thither — listened quietly, but his eyes blazed with 
exultation. 

“I’ll do it,” he muttered. “ I’ll have my lady safe, and 
when once well caged she shall find out, to her cost, who is 
master.” 

So they had her removed by easy stages ; not to Lionel 
Vernon’s house, but to the fine estate which belonged to the 
man whom Geraldine hated so intensely, yet who was her hus- 
band. When she had found out the truth she was nearly fran- 
tic, for the thought of being alone with him at that quiet place 
was enough to drive her mad. She had become fearfully ex- 
cited, and the dormant disease developed into fever. She 
might never recover, they said ; but one way or the other, it 
would be very soon decided. And all the time her beseeching 


A SEVmtE THEEAT, 


189 


cry was for Howard, loved and lost ! Standing at the bedside 
of his wife — wife in name only — Sir John Sydney listened to her 
ravings, and at last he knew that not only did she hate him in- 
tensely, but — she loved another man with all her heart and 
strength. He did not dream that there was more concealed 
from him, that Howard Ashleigh had been Geraldine’s lawful 
husband, but he had heard enough, and he ground out a fear- 
ful imprecation between his set teeth, as he listened to her 
piteous cries for Howard, begging him to come back once 
more. There was a wicked glitter in the old man’s hard eyes, 
and he registered a vow in the very depths of his heart to bring 
back to her remembrance, some day, the words that she had 
uttered, and a reason why she should recall them. And he 
was a man not likely to forget. 

Two days had come and gone, and the crisis was at hand. 
Alone with her charge, the nurse bent over the beautiful face 
which lay among the pillows, her eyes closed, and the Jong dark 
lashes resting upon the pallid cheeks, and gazed long and earn- 
estly. The fever had spent itself, and she lay there like a broken 
lily ; soon the crisis would be past, and the worst be known. 
There must have been magnetism, mesmerism, in the gaze of 
the new nurse, for Geraldine, half conscious, felt herself gradu- 
ally slipping aw'ay into the border land of sleep ; soon her regu- 
lar breathing betokened that she was in a quiet slumber. The 
nurse pressed her lips to one white hand. 

His sister!” she murmured, softly. “Lloyd’s sister! I 
would lay down my life to save hers !” 

The rustling of the silken drapery made her start as it broke 
the silence of the sick-room ; the nurse turned, only to recoil 
with a suppressed cry of alarm, for there before her, her blue, 
triumphant eyes studying the old woman’s face, l\er own white 
and resolute, stood Lady Venetia Chandos. A red flush stained 
the swarthy cheek of Martha Winters. She set her white teeth 
hard together, and drew back involuntarily. Lady Venetia in- 
clined her head slightly. 


190 


A BUVIJBJS THREAT, 


“ You are the new nurse, I presume ?” she began. 

*‘I am the new nurse, my lady/' 

Lady Venetia bit her lip and glanced suspiciously into the 
passive face of the old woman. 

** Who told you," she began, hastily, then checked herself. 

How did you know my name V she added. 

The old woman made no reply, and Lady Venetia continued : 

“ Lady Sydney is a great friend of mine, and I —I have called 
to see her. Do you consider her in great danger 

The nurse turned an impassive face upon her intolocutor. 

“Great!" she returned, quietly, “so great that I must beg 
you to retire. Lady Chandos !’’ 

As the old woman uttered the words she chanced to lift her 
eyes, covered by the huge steel-bowed spectacles, and a look of 
surprise, then horror, dawned in their depths ; for that one swift, 
upward glance had revealed to her something which made her 
heart stand still. Yet it was nothing remarkable or uncommon 
which she had seen ; merely the coat of arms of the house of 
Sydney, which w'as emblazened over the door-way of the cham- 
ber, as indeed it was over the dcors throughout the entire house. 
The old woman stood transfixed, her gaze fastened upon it. 

Her breath came and went in fitful gasps, and involuntarily 
she clutched at something that lay hidden in her bosom. The 
other's eyes were upon the face of nurse Martha, with a cold, 
hard, supercilious stare. 

“You must go, my lady 1" panted the old woman. “Dr. 
Denzil has given orders that no visitors shall be admitted." 

A strange gleam shot into Lady Venetia's steely-blue eyes ; 
she caught her breath quickly, and turned with a haughty ges- 
ture, stepped over the threshold, and the sick-room was relieved 
of her unwelcome presence. At the foot of the grand staircase 
she encountered the baronet. Lady Venetia pointed up the 
stair-way ; her features livid, and working convulsively. 

“Keep a sharp lookout, Sir John Sydney," she hissed “or 
you will find yourself worsted. Wait I” She paused and glanced 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


191 


cautiously into his face. ‘‘Come into the library,” she added, 
hastily, “ I have something to say to you.” 

They passed into the great, gloomy library, and the door 
closed behind them. 

Left alone in the sick-room the nurse darted forward and 
turned the key in the lock ; then, with eager haste, she tore 
open the bosom of her dress, and dragged forth eagerly, fran- 
tically, something concealed there. A man's gold sleeve-button, 
set with gleaming emeralds ; on the reverse side a coat of arms. 
She held it up and compared it with the one above the door. 
Two mailed hands grasping a bleeding heart ; over all, the 
ominous legend “ V(E Vic/is.” She set her teeth hard together 
— remarkably strong, white teeth for an old woman to possess — 
and tossing the disfiguring spectacles aside, raised her right hand 
toward heaven. 

“At last !” she panted, and in her excitement and agitation 
her voice rang out loud and clear. “I am on the track. I 
have penetrated John Gordon’s secret. I stand here under my 
own father's roof ; and now — woe to you. Sir John Sydney !” 

A stifled exclamation fell upon her ears, and turning quickly, 
the old woman saw Geraldine sitting up, wan and white, among 
the dainty pillows. 

“Say it again !” the sick woman faltered, feebly. “ It sounds 
like music to me. - Tell me, do hate him, too?” 

The delirium had vanished. Geraldine was in her right 
mind. The nurse comprehended the situation at a glance. She 
darted to the bedside. 

“ Lad^ Sydney,” she panted, bending over the white face, 
whose dark, beautiful eyes now held the light of reason in their 
depths once more, “Miss Geraldine,” she added, correcting 
herself as she caught sight of the look of aversion which crossed 
the sick woman’s face at the sound of that hated title, “ listen ! 
I have come here to nurse you, but, for a reason of my own, 
which I will soon explain, I am in disguise. I am a wronged 
and suffering woman,” she went on, wringing her white hands 


192 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


wildly, *^and they call me Lola Gordon ; but Sir John Sydney 
is my father, and — God help me — the murderer of my mother 

“I believe you,” returned Geraldine, in a calm, resolute 
tone. “I could credit any statement against that man, no 
matter how fearful. Lola Gordon, do you desire revenge } So do 
I ; more — I have sworn to obtain it. I have uttered threats 
against Sir John Sydney which I long to carry into execution. 
Sit down here at my side. Though I am weak, I will strive to 
be strong, that we may devise some plan of vengeance !” 

“Wait,” said Lola, “drink your strengthening cordial first, 
and then you will be more able to talk.” 

She stepped to a tiny table near, where the medicines were 
ranged side by side, and as she poured the cordial into a wine- 
glass, her eyes fell upon a letter which had been carelessly 
dropped — probably an accident — upon the velvet carpet. 

Lola administered the cordial, and then deliberately picked 
up the missive and examined it. She started back with a cry 
of dismay, as Geraldine stretched forth her hand, and seized 
the letter. 

“Let me see it,” she panted. “It is Sir John Sydneys 
handwriting, and is addressed to my father.” 

She had it open even while she spoke, and her eyes flew over 
the contents. Her face, pale before, grew ghastly now, and a 
look of utter despair came into her great dark eyes. 

“ All in vain 1” she faltered ; “all in vain, I have sacrificed 
myself; sold my own soul, to save my father from punishment 
for a crime, which I find now he never committed! And Sir 
John Sydney knew it from first to last. Lola, there is no ven- 
geance too severe, no punishment too great, for this human 
fiend ! I am well now ; I feel my strength returning — urged 
on by my desperate need. Plot ! plan ! do anything^ no matter 
how terrible, so that he is paid back for what he has done ; and 
I— so help me, Heaven ! will make him suffer for it, though my 
own life should pay the forfeit !” . 


A SEVERE THREAT, 


193 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE PLOT PROSPERS. 

After a time the library door opened softly, and Sir John came 
forth, side by side with Lady Venetia. A gleam of triumph 
shone upon my lady’s beautiful face ; but the baronet was livid 
with anger, and his little round eyes were full of moody light. 
At the outer door they paused a moment. 

“And you are positive of this. Lady Venetia?” 

She laughed, lightly. 

“Positive!” she returned. “ You will find it to be true 
yourself, when the time comes. Good-by, Sir John !” 

And she fluttered down the gray stone steps to her carriage. 

Sir John turned, and began to pace slowly up and down the 
marble floor of the entrance hall. His face still wore that pale, 
startled, yet angry expression, and as he walked he clenched 
his hands together nervously. 

“I’ll have it out with her— I swear I will,” he muttered, 
stopping suddenly. “She has had her own way long enough. 
Sick or well, she shall do my bidding, and I’ll get at the first 
of this story sooner or later. It will not pay to thwart me in 
everything, by Jove ! and she shall learn that I am master in 
my own house I” 

He walked up and down the long hall, slowly, his hands 
clasped behind his back, his head bent as though in deep med- 
itation. 

“Devilish fine woman is Venetia !” he resumed, at length ; 
“got her eye open to all that’s going on. If it hadn’t been for 
my foolish weakness for Geraldine (the vixen !) I should have 
asked Venetia to be Lady Sydney ; but ” 

His soliloquy came to an abrupt termination. 

He had come to a halt in a retired portion of the great. 


194 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


deserted corridor — paused, in a very paroxysm of terror. The 
long hall ended in a retired nook, a bay-window of stained 
glass. The sunlight, straying through it, paved a pathway of 
scarlet, and purple, and orange upon the marble tiles of the 
floor ; about the window crimson damask curtains were draped, 
making a cozy hiding-place for any one who might choose to 
conceal themselves therein ; and as Sir John paused, his eyes 
fell upon a face peering at him from behind the heavy cur- 
tains. His eyes, staring straight before him, seemed riveted 
to the spot ; his breath came in fitful gasps ; his hands grew 
suddenly cold and clammy, and hung powerless at his side ; 
while a low moan issued from his pale lips. For he saw be- 
fore him, gazing straight into his own white face, a pair of 
deep, dark eyes, a face of unearthly pallor, with waves of mid- 
night hair falling nearly to the floor — the form of a woman, 
delicate, graceful, in a flowing white robe. The baronet gazed 
as one fascinated, as though powerless to resist the wonderful, 
searching dark eyes which seemed to look through him ; then 
he turned away and buried his white face in his trembling 
hands. 

“ Stella !” he moaned, feebly; ** Stella, why will you always 
haunt me.?” 

The faint echo of a sigh fell upon the silence ; then a voice 
whispered softly : 

‘‘Murderer, beware !” 

He started as though he had been struck. Those words had 
been Stella Gilroy’s last. He sprang forward like a madman, 
and tore aside the crimson curtains. 

There was no one there ! 

With a stifled cry, he darted away from the place, away from 
the house itself, out into the great, fragrant garden. Up and 
down he paced nervously in the sunshine — up and down, for 
an hour or more ; then there came the sound of hurried foot- 
steps upon the garden-walk, and lifting his head, he saw stand- 
ing before him the nurse, Martha Winters. 


A 8EVURE THREAT. 


196 


“Sir John,” began the old woman, gravely, you are wanted 
in the house. I am grieved to tell your lordship, but — Lady 
Sydney is deadT 

“What do you mean T' he thundered ; “how dare you come 
here and tell me such a thing V' 

“Lady Sydney is — is dead I” repeated the nurse, gravely. 
“We-^we would have summoned you, but she forbade it; 
and — ^you had better come now.” 

Like a madman he dashed up the broad walk into the palace 
which had been a prison to the- beautiful woman who had given 
him naught but hatred, and soon he wa» standing in the pres- 
ence of the white, still figure ; she had escaped him, was out of 
his power at last. 

The obsequies were hurried with unprecedented rapidity. 
Dr. Denzil advising expedition owing to the nature of the dis- 
ease, which he intimated had developed into a contagious dis- 
order, and necessitated a speedy burial. It was a terrible blow 
to Lloyd Vernon ; he was half mad with grief at the loss of his 
only sister, whom he had not seen in so long a time. He was 
quite recovered now, and, with his father, hastened to Sydney 
House. There was a strange mystery pervading Geraldine's 
marriage, which was ever present to the young man’s mind ; 
but he forgot all other considerations now in the presence of the 
great grief. The day of his arrival at Sydney House he wan- 
dered out into the grounds, for he could not remain indoors, 
where, alone in the darkened drawing-room that lay which had 
been the beautiful Geraldine Vernon. In his grief and conse- 
quent absorbtion, he wandered on for-a mile, perhaps, without 
realizing the distance. At last he paused and glanced about 
him ; he was still weak, and the walk had been a long one ; 
besides, a suspicion had stolen into his mind that he had seen 
that spot before. 

He was standing on the bank of a dark, turbid stream, in the 
midst of a clump of tall trees, and there, right before him, 


196 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


Stood a gnarled, oddly shaped oak-tree. Panting and breath- 
less, he sprang forward, and eagerly examined its massive trunk. 
There, cut into the bark, was a rude cross, surmounted by the 
letter “V.” 

Heavens !” he panted, in wild amazement, *^can it be pos- 
sible ? I shall keep my eyes open, for as surely as I live I be- 
gin to believe that there has been wrong done !” 

The dull, hollow clang of the death-bell broke the silence. 
One, two, three ; he counted the mournful strokes slowly until 
they had proclaimed twenty. He knew that the bell was tolling 
for his only sister. 

He turned his steps back to the house, for the solemn cor- 
tege would be soon ready. The bells had begun to toll dis- 
mally again, and an hour later the long, almost interminable 
*procession wound down the broad avenue which led from Syd- 
ney House, on to the somber old grave-yard not far away, where, 
within a magnificent tomb, lay the ashes of the dead and gone 
Sydneys. And in all the country newspapers, as well as those 
in London, there appeared notices of the death of the young, 
and beautiful, and lamented Lady Sydney, nee Geraldine 
Vernon. 

Time passed on. Days and weeks rolled by, and the excite- 
ment and nine-days’ wonder concerning the unexpected death 
of the beautiful Lady Sydney had died out. Dr. Denzil called 
regularly at Mrs. Brown’s cottage still, for Dot was not yet 
quite recovered, and no one dreamed that there was another 
patient within the cottage walls. 

One night, dark as Erebus, Bob Brown drove his cart and a 
fast horse over the road which led to a remote town and railway 
station, keeping ever in the shadow, and flying along as rapidly 
as possible. 

He carried two passengers. One was Lola Gordon, still dis- 
guised as the nurse, old Martha Winters, and leaning against 
her, pale and agitated, with a thick vail effectually concealing 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


197 


her features, could it be possible ?— Geraldine, Lady Syd- 
ney ! For the grave had given up its dead, and the strange 
scheme for vengeance had begun. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

AN ITEM IN THE “TIMES.” 

“What is the matter with Ashleigh? He has been awfully 
blue ever since he returned from Europe ? Seems to have no 
eyes, no thought for any of his old friends, ladies especially. I 
do believe, Kittie, that he has left his heart over in ‘merrie 
England,’ with some titled lady, perhaps. It’s always the case 
when any of our young men take a trip across the water — they 
are almost certain to leave their hearts on the other side.” 

“ Awfully uncomfortable / should think,” laughed Kitty 
Dexter, glancing up from the bit of embroidery in her hand 
into her brother’s frank, handsome face ; “and awfully uncom- 
plimentary to their own countrywomen, it strikes me. But, 
really, Hal,” and her sweet face grew grave and troubled, “I, 
too, have observed the change in Mr. Ashleigh since he came 
home to America. He was your constant companion ; you and 
he and Mr. Vernon were always together, and so intimate. It 
— it pains me to see how sad and altered he is.” 

Ay, that it did, far more than her words would imply. For 
Kittie Dexter, true and sweet, and womanly, had loved How- 
ward Ashleigh for months — loved him in secret, and concealed 
in her own breast the knowledge which she would have died 
rather than betray. 

“I wonder what is the matter.?” she said, at last. “Oh, 
Hal, I would give anything to know !” 

“A woman, of course,” sneered Hal, and he did not see how 
white Kittie’s face grew at his words. “ I’m going out to him,’ 
he added, picking up his hat, and stepping through the long 


198 


A THREAT. 


window upon the vine-wreathed porch. In a moment more he 
was at Howard's side, one arm slipped through his. 

“ Old fellow,” cried Dexter, cheerily, “what’s up? You are 
looking out of sorts. Can’t you confide in your old friend ? 
Except Vernon, I have been your most intimate companion. 
Tell me what troubles you, Howard. Perhaps, old boy, I 
might be able to help you. ” 

Howard glanced up. His face had grown very pale and hag- 
gard, and bore unmistakable evidence of suffering, and his eyes 
were full of wordless, pathetic sorrow. He tried to force a 
smile, then turning suddenly, he wrung his friend's hand. Even 
futile sympathy is sweet to the wounded spirit. 

“ Thank you, Hal,” he returned, gratefully. “You are very 
kind ; but, old friend, you can do me no good. No one on 
earth can help me. Hal, I have had a fearful sorrow since I 
saw you last; and— and — I wonder,” he added, thoughtfully, 
“if it would ease me any to tell you all.” 

“Try,” returned Hal Dexter. “I believe that troubles are 
sometimes lightened by the telling. You know me well, and 
that no idle curiosity prompts me when I say, tell me all.” 

Howard took a few more turns up and down ; he seemed 
studying the question in his mind. Suddenly he paused and 
pointed to a seat under the shadow of a tree not far away. 

“Let us sit there,” he proposed, “ and— I— believe I will 
confide in you, Dexter.” 

So, having seated themselves, the young man began, and re- 
peated his sad story from first to last. His romantic marriage, 
and how Lionel Vernon had caused him to be dragged away on 
a false charge — a charge trumped up simply to remove him 
while the rest of the wicked plot was carried out. Geraldine’s 
father had then taken her away to England, and to the best of 
Howard’s belief, had made her a prisoner in that old, deserted 
country-house. Later Howard had been set at liberty ; but, 
determined to find his wife, he had hastened to England, and 
there, in the forest, not far from the old house where he be- 


A SJSFEBE THBBAT. 


199 


lieved her to be a prisoner, he had been attacked by assassins 
who attempted to take his life. He had been seriously 
wounded, but managed to crawl to a hut where an old woman 
lived all alone ; and, as he possessed considerable money, and 
was able to recompense her well, she nursed him back to health 
again. As soon as he was able he found his way to the old house, 
but Geraldine was gone. There were strange servants in pos- 
session, who knew nothing of the young lady, save that she had 
gone to London with her father. He made his way thither, and 
on his arrival, passing St. George’s church, he had found her — 
his own wife — ^just married to another — the very man whom she 
had sworn over and over again that she hated with all her 
heart. 

When Howard finished his sad story, Hal Dexter wrung his 
hand in silent sympathy. 

There was one circumstance which Hal had not taken into 
consideration. The tree under which the two had been sitting 
was very near the open windows of the room where Kittie was 
sitting, with her bright-hued embroidery in her hands. She 
had overheard nearly every word of the conversation, and she 
knew Howard Ashleigh’s sad secret at last. 

Her work fell to the floor, and her eyes, blue as the hearts of 
violets, dilated with anguish. She trembled violently ; then, 
with a low moan, she rested her head upon the table before her, 
and wrestled with the bitter sorrow which had come to darken 
her life. 

Outside, under the pleasant shade of the tree, the birds were 
singing sweetly ; the soft lap of the waves upon the sand made 
sweet music, and down the beach came the postman, with easy, 
swinging tread. 

“Foreign papers, sir,” he observed, placing a package in 
Howard’s hand. Eagerly he seized the first paper, and opened 
it with shaking fingers. A copy of the London Times — what 
was there in its coluuns to blanch his face to such a deathly 
hue, and bring such despair into his eyes? He could not 


200 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


speak to have saved his life. With one cold, shaking forefinger 
he pointed to a certain paragraph, and Hal Dexter stooped and 
read it slowly : 

“ Died : At Sydney House, near Waltham, on the 14th inst., Ger- 
aldine, wife of Sir John Sydney, baronet, and daughter of Lionel Vernon, 
Esq., aged twenty years. I he remains were interred in the family tomb 
of the Sydneys, at Waltham grave-yard.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

LADY VENETIA PLEADS. 

“Lloyd, hear me. You must!" 

Lloyd Veinon stood in the luxurious drawing-room of his 
father’s handsome house in Park Lane. He had seen all that 
remained of his only sister, or what he believed to be her re- 
mains, laid away in the great family tomb of the Sydneys ; and 
then, without an hour’s delay, he had left for London. He had 
lost all trace of Lola. She had disappeared from his life as 
completely as though he had never known her ; and, although 
his reason warned him that this was best, he felt that he could 
not remain in the vicinity. Besides, Lady Venetia was at Chan- 
dos Park, her own princely home, a few miles from Waltham, 
and he would sooner meet his worst enemy than this fair, false 
woman, who had laid his whole life waste. 

So he hurried to London, and on the morning after his 
arrival at Park Lane, was informed by a servant that a lady 
wished to see him in the drawing-room. With a wild thought 
of Lola, he had gone down, to be confronted by Lady Venetia 
Chandos. 

The first greeting over — quiet and cold enough, too — fol- 
lowed by a few stale commonplaces, and then Lloyd turned 
away with a weary look upon his face. 

“ Lloyd, hear me !” she panted. “You must !” 

She advanced with the sinuous, gliding motion which was 


A TBBEAT. 


201 


one of her attributes (unpleasantly suggestive to him now of a 
serpent), and laid one hand, ungloved and white as a snowy 
rose-leaf, upon his arm. 

“ Hear me, Lloyd !” she pleaded, piteously, her beautiful 
eyes uplifted, dewy with unshed tears. “ I am your wife ! your 
wife, Lloyd Vernon — you must acknowledge me — and " — (her 
eyes blazed wrathfully) — ‘‘you shall T 

She had made a mistake — a grave mistake; she saw it when 
it was too late to retract Loyd’s lip curled scornfully. 

“Listen to me. Lady Venetia Chandos,’" he said, slowly; 
“we may as well understand each other, and settle this ques- 
tion now — at once. No matter what the law may decree, the 
ceremony which chains our lives together is but a farce ; for, so 
help me. Heaven » you shall never bear my name — you are no 
wife of mine ! Venetia, had I entertained a thought that was 
tender in my heart for you, it would have died when I found out 
your fiendish attempt to take the life of that poor defenseless 
girl 

“ It is false she shrieked, when she could command her 
voice; “false you are. And she, the woman who would 
deliberately court the attention of a married man, and 
who ” 

“ Stop, Lady Venetia !” 

Lloyd’s voice was very cool. But, my lady, who knew him 
well, knew that when he spoke in that calm, icy tone, his anger 
was at white heat. She hesitated. 

“Dare to mention Lola Gordon in tones of reproach,” he 
said, slowly, “and I will publish to the world the fact that you 
attempted to take her life ! Lady Venetia Chandos, the would- 
be murderess, would hardly find so many suitors kneeling at 
her shrine. Go your way, my lady, and leave that poor girl 
unmolested, or it will be worse for you. My intention is to 
return to America ; once there, I will obtain a divorce ; and 
then you will be free to marry whom you please. ” 

“ And can marry Lola Gordon 1” she snarled. , - 


202 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


At least, I shall not be bound to you/" he returned, icily. 

“Listen !” she faltered, beseechingly. “I love you, Lloyd, 
with all my heart I love you, and you are my husband ! Ac- 
knowledge me to the world as your wife ; give me a chance 
to redeem the past, and I swear, before high heaven, to ded- 
icate my future to you. See 1” 

And she fell upon her knees on the velvet carpet at his feet, 
her two small hands uplifted and clasped in supplication, her 
beautiful, flower-like face raised to his own. 

“I do not love you 1” he answered, quietly. “ I was led 
into that mad marriage — you know best through what influence 
— it is too late to retract now ; but acknowledge you to the 
world as my wdfe, never — never T" 

She sprang to her feet with a muttered cry of rage and 
despair ; and he saw, with a pang of wordless horror, that she 
held something shining and glittering in one small hand ; and 
he shrank back appalled at her baseness, for his quick, keen 
glance saw that it was a knife. He darted forward, with a 
look of scorn and contempt upon his handsome faee, and struck 
the weapon from her grasp. 

“You are bent on murder, Venetia,” he observed, with per- 
fect sang froid. “ It is well that you are always foiled in your 
attempts. Venetia — Lady Chandos — listen to me ; I call 
heaven to witness my words. I would not acknowledge such a 
creature as you to be my wife ; no, not to save my own soul !” 

“I will make your life a hell upon earth I” she hissed, 
slowly, biting the words off with sharp precision. Lloyd 
Vernon, you shall live to regret this hour, so help me Heaven 

He bowed coolly, and opened the door of the drawing- 
room. 

“Your carriage waits. Lady Venetia,” he observed, serenely. 

He offered her his arm, but she turned from him with a 
disdainful glance ; then slowly followed him out into the sun- 
shine. 

He pl^ed her in her carriage as deferentially as though she 


A SHVHHH mREAT, 


203 


had not just attempted to take his life, touched his hat in cour- 
teous adieu, and the carriage, with its coat of arms glistening in 
the sunbeams, rolled slowly away. 

Lloyd turned back with that mocking smile still lingering 
upon his face. His gaze fell carelessly upon a play-bill posted 
on an opposite corner, and he paused involuntarily. No won- 
der, for the bills announced the arrival in London of “the 
famous Templemore Theatrical Troupe,” for a short engage- 
ment, and among the names of the performers was that of Dora 
Wylde, while flaunting capitals at the foot announced the en- 
gagement of “ the beautiful young cantatrice, Stella Gordon.” 

“Great Heaven 1” he muttered, in wondering surprise; 
“ what if it should be Lola?'* 


CHAPTER XXI. 

BETRAYED. 

It was indeed Lola ; who for her own purpose had adopted 
her mother’s name. 

Let us go back to the time when she and Geraldine had laid 
their plot by which they meant to avenge their own wrongs. 
They had wisely taken Dr. Denzil into their confidence— in 
fact, they could not well do otherwise. The good old physician 
was astonished— thunderstruck at their story ; but he had never 
liked or trusted Sir John Sydney, and when he heard the story 
which they told him, he readily gave his consent to assist them 
as jequested, in their unequal contest ; two feeble women pitted 
against a bad, wicked man. 

So the news of Geraldine’s death had been promulgated, and 
a speedy burial recommended— nay, urged. Geraldine man- 
aged to remain quiet as though really dead ; ^he belief that her 
disease had become contagious served to keep idle curiosity 
from viewing the corpse. The coffin arrived, and was closed at 


204 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


once, according to Dr. Denzil's orders ; but it held no dead 
body, no sad remains of what had been the beautiful Lady Syd- 
ney ; but instead, iron weights were substituted, so disposed as 
to divert suspicion. And in the dead of night Geraldine had 
been smuggled away to Widow Brown’s cottage, which Lloyd 
had just left, and the widow was taken into the secret, for they 
felt that she could be trusted. And there Geraldine remained 
for weeks, until she was fully recovered. It had been a fearful 
risk to remove the sick woman, but instead of killing her out- 
right, it had seemed to infuse new life into her veins ; and, sur- 
rounded by the little band of friends, all devoted to her cause, 
she began to improve rapidly, and was at length able to act 
for herself. Geraldine had quite a sum of money of her own 
■ in her possession, but Lola, having succeeded in removing her 
to London, refused to depend upon her bounty. Dot came 
on at once, and they all lived together in small and obscure 
lodgings, where, as soon as it was deemed safe and expedient, 
Mrs. Brown arrived to act as housekeeper and general chaperon. 

In the meantime the Templemore Theatrical troupe was on 
the road, but the manager communicated with Dot to the effect 
that they would soon be in London, and that she must hold 
herself in readiness to fill the position which she was elected to 
fill. Her wounded arm had precluded the provincial tour, and 
Dot was glad to now be able to return to her old work. 

One day, in a retired street, she came across the leader of the 
orchestra at the Coronet Theater, and insisted that he should 
come and hear Lola sing. He came. Dot managed to hide 
Geraldine in a small room adjoining the main apartment ; and 
Lola sang for the old man’s delectation. He went away de- 
lighted, 

“Just what Mr. Templemore needs !” he exclaimed to the 
delighted Dot. “ Miss Wylde, I think your friend is certain to 
get an engagement, at a good salary too.” 

Lola devoted all her time to practice, under the auspices of 
the old musician. Mr. Templemore arrived in London, and 


A SEVEHU THUEAT. 


206 


in response to the old man’s request, Lola was sent for to come 
to the Coronet Theater, that the manager might judge for him- 
self. The result was an immediate engagement at a liberal 
salary ; her debui to take place within a fortnight — her role being 
that of a Scotch lassie, the song, “ Auld Robin Grey.” 

The night arrived, and palpitating with terror, Lola came on 
the stage. The effect of her beauty upon the audience was 
wonderful. Her acting was very good, and her singing was 
divine. They sat like people entranced; no one seemed to 
move or scarcely breathe ; but when she had finished, a storm 
of applause shook the house, and an avalanche of flowers de- 
scended about the fair debutante. Lola Gordon was a success. 

She had assumed her mother’s name, Stella, for her own pur- 
poses. She did not dream that that very name would prove her 
own betrayal — and worse. The night after her first appearance 
on the boards of the Coronet, a telegram went flying over the 
wires from Lady Venetia to Sir John Sydney. He came to 
London immediately on receipt of it, and almost the first object 
upon which his gaze rested was a play-bill which announced the 
appearance at the Coronet of Stella Gordon. There was a 
crowd gathered before the posters as the baronet paused to pe- 
ruse the words. All the color faded from his ruddy face ; he 
threw up his arms with a gesture of horror, like one groping 
in the dark and afraid; then, with a strange, gasping cry, he 
reeled unsteadily, and fell to the pavement like one dead. 

A carriage which had been bowling slowly along, drew up at 
the curbing, and a beautiful face peered out. 

“It is Sir John Sydney !” cried a clear, sweet voice. “ Lift 
him into my carriage, and I will see that he is taken home.” 

A dozen strong arms were outstretched, and the baronet 
placed within the carriage. Lady Venetia gave an order to the 
coachman, and it rolled away. 

That night, when Lola came on the stage to sing, she saw in 
a proscenium box, gazing upon her with eyes full of malicious 
triumph. Lady Venetia Chandos and Sir John Sydney. She 


206 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


trembled violently, and would have fallen but for the strong 
will which sustained her. 

She longed to dart forward, there in the presence of the vast 
audience, and point her finger at the wicked man who sat watch- 
ing her with eyes full of fiendish . hatred, and cry aloud : • 

“You are John Gordon, the murderer of my mother !” 

But of what avail would her accusation be, without overwhelm- 
ing proof.J^ She, a poor, nameless nobody, a waif, a simple 
play-actor ; and he Sir John Sydney, Bart., of Sydney House, a 
man with an immense rent-roll, and a title over two hundred 
years old ! Birth, and position, and family name are mighty, 
while money, like charity, “covereth a multitude of sins.” 

She turned away, and sang the pretty ballad of “Kathleen 
Mavourneen,” and the house came down, and the applause and 
the floral offerings were equally prodigious. In her hour of 
triumph the little singer would have been perfectly happy — save, 
ever and always, that haunting memory of her dead mother’s 
unavenged wrongs — but for the basilisk gaze of the two in the 
box near by, for, intuitively, the girl felt that there was danger 
in the air. 

But, somehow, the play progressed, and at last the curtain 
fell, and Dot and Lola both were free to go home to Geraldine. 

As the curtain descended. Sir John Sydney staggered to his 
feet, ..white and trembling, for he was horribly afraid. He had 
long ago forgotten Lola’s existence, forgotten that there had 
been a child, the issue of that ill-starred, ill-omened marriage ; 
and now, as he gazed upon the beautiful face, so familiar to 
him, on the stage, he believed that Stella, poor mur- 
dered Stella, stood before him. The name upon the 
bills was Stella, and the face that gazed upon him from the 
brightly lighted stage — that face, with the long, dusky hair all 
afloat, and the soft, lustrous dark eyes shining like stars, and 
the sweet, low voice which he remembered so well — all, all 
were Stella’s, his heart-broken wife, whom he had sought to 
murder. What if she had escaped? What if she were wait- 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


207 


ing for the hour to come when she should pay him back for 
all that he had done? The very thought brought the cold 
dew of despair upon his brow. 

Strange that he never thought of the discrepancy in years 
between the woman whose gentle heart he had ruthlessly 
broken, and this fair young girl, whose voice was like a singing 
bird. He thought of nothing, save that she was before him, 
and her name was Stella Gordon. 

Trembling and horrified, halWead with fear and reproach, ab- 
ject coward that he was, Sir John staggered from the theater, 
and reached his carriage. Somehow, he never stopped to in- 
quire how it had occurred, Lady Venetia was already seated 
there. 

She caught his arm in a fierce grasp, and raised her steely 
eyes to his own. 

“Listen, Sir John Sydney!” she panted; “I have some- 
thing wonderful to tell you 1” 

* * * ♦ * * * 

An hour later, Dot and Lola, in their plain little parlor, with 
Geraldine lying, pale as a snow-wreath, upon a couch, were 
recounting the occurrences of the evening, when there came a 
loud, imperative rap upon the door. 

“Come in!” cried Dot, briskly; for at that late hour she 
believed it could be no one but Mrs. Brown. 

The door swung slowly open ; and then, with a gasp ot 
horror. Dot sprang to her feet as she beheld the visitor — Sir 
John Sydney ! 

He looked like a demon as he paused upon the threshold, 
confronting the horror-stricken group in awful silence, his 
wicked eyes wandering slowly and comprehensively over their 
blanched and terrified faces. Then he drew nearer, and his 
voice rang out in malicious triumph : 

“ Lady Geraldine Sydney !” he said, calmly ; “I have come 
for my wife !” 


208 


A TIIBBAT, 


CHAPTER XXII. 
kittie’s secret. 

**Dead!” 

Howard Ashleigh turned the word over in his dazed, bewil- 
dered mind. 

The word tolled like a death-knell in his brain. He 
staggered forward, slowly and falteringly, toward the house, 
while Hal, fearing that he would fall, followed him closely 
and so conducted him into Kittie’s pretty parlor. He sank 
into a seat like one exhausted while the news was imparted 
to Kittie. All her own grief) and the hidden sorrow of her 
secret, all was put aside — brave little Kittie! she came to 
Howard’s side, and extended her hand in silent sympathy. 
He held it for a moment in his own, then turned his haggard 
lace away. 

“ He wants to be alone, Hal,” whispered Kittie; “let us 
leave him to himself.” 

So they withdrew from the room, leaving Howard to battle 
with his sorrow alone. 

Days and weeks drifted slowly down the aisles of the vanished 
past, and still the trio lingered at Ocean Springs. 

Meanwhile, Kittie had grown strangely^^cold and distant to 
her brother’s friend. Howard observed it, and felt a dreary sort 
of regret, but was really too indifferent to the whole world out- 
side of his own sorrow — which, for the time, rendered him 
selfish — to trouble himself greatly concerning her altered de- 
meanor. 

One afternoon Kittie tied on her broad-brimmed sun-hat 
and went down to the beach, where her boat lay moored — the 
Undine — a fanciful little craft, all green and gold, with crimson 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


209 


cushions piled upon the seats. Springing in, and unfastening 
the boat, she pushed it away from shore. 

Hal, lounging idly on the sand, called out, lazily : 

“Which way, Kit?” 

She pointed down the beach, where the pretty white light- 
house reared its head against the blue, hazy sky. 

“ All right,” drawled Hal, who was blind as a bat to the real 
situation, and would as soon have thought that the end of the 
world was at hand as that Kittie cared for Howard Ashleigh. 
“Go on, sis; you’ll find Howard down there somewhere. His 
‘boat is on the shore, and his bark is on the sea.’ Oh, I never 
could quote Byron worth a cent. Why, Kit, where are you 
going?’ 

For Kittie had deliberately turned her boat about. She would 
not have encountered Howard Ashleigh alone for the round 
world. 

“Over to the island,” she returned, promptly; “it’s more 
quiet there, and I am going to read,” holding up a tiny blue 
and gold volume of Tennyson. 

Hal nodded. 

“ By-by !” he cried. “ Don't forget yourself, Kittie, and let 
the tide overtake you.” 

“No danger,” she sang out, cheerily; and the Undine flew 
away, skimming the water like a bird. 

At last the keel of the Undine grated the sand, and Kittie 
sprang out, fastened her boat by carelessly tossing the chain 
over a gnarled root ; and then, with her book in hand, and a 
pretty striped shawl over her arm, she wandered slowly down 
the beach. 

“ ‘I’m monarch of all I survey !’” she cried, merrily glanc- 
ing about her — “a female edition of Robison Crusoe. Some 
girls would be afraid to stay here a moment alone, but I — ah !” 

She paused in horror and amazement, a little cry of alarm 
fluttering from her lips. 

Right in her path was a great pine tree, and there lying care- 


210 


A JSBFBJiJf; THREAT, 


lessly upon the grass below its branches, smoking like a small 
volcano, was, great heavens ! Howard Ashleigh. He sprang to 
his feet in surprise, tossing his half-smoked cigar away. 

'‘Miss KittieT he ejaculated, helplessly ; then he dropped a 
mocking glance to the ground at her feet. 

Kittie caught the glance, and choked back the nervous incli- 
nation to cry which possessed her. She turned a laughing face 
toward him, and because it was laughing, he failed to note its 
extreme pallor. 

“No, Mr. Ashleigh,” she cried, “I do noi spring from the 
earth, like the enchanted people of fairy tales. I came here in 
my own boat ” then after a slight pause, “ Hal told me that 
you were down at the light-house. ” 

“So I was,” returned Howard, serenely; “but becoming 
tired of the stale Scenery in that vicinity, hired a boy to row me 
up here ; I have never visited the island before, for ‘ distance 
lends enchantment’ I told the young man to return for me at 
sundown ; I believe the tide rises about that time. ” 

Kittie shuddered. 

“I think you had better be away from here before sunset,” 
she returned, “ unless you wish to share the fate of the “ ‘Three 
Fishers.’ ” 

* * 

“ I must go,” Kittie said, hurriedly. “ See 1 the sun is setting, 
and — look, Mr. Ashleigh ! Oh, my, look !” 

For there at their very feet, crawling slowly up the shining 
sand, was a pool of black water. Above their heads the 
branches of the tree swayed in the rising breeze, and a faint, 
moaning sound went sadly through the bows — that unutterably 
mournful music of the wind among the pines. 

Howard’s face had grown very white, but he turned to the 
startled girl. 

“ It is nothing, Miss Kittie,” he said, quietly, trying to in- 
fuse courage into her heart. “Come, you will show me 


A SEVEItE THREAT, 


2il 


where you have left the Undine ; even though the water may 
have arisen about it, I can make my way to the boat. We had 
better make haste, too, for there is a storm rising ; that accounts 
for the tide coming in so rapidly — the wind sends it upon the 
shore. 

She led him on to where the Undine had been fastened, then 
paused, and a low cry of horror and despair burst from her 
white lips ; for the boat was gone. Carelessly secured, the 
wind and the rising water had borne it away, and it was already 
far out at sea. 

For a moment they stood there in perfect silence; then 
Howard forced a smile to his anxious face. 

“Don’t be discouraged. Miss Kittie,” he cried ; “ I do not 
believe that the island is ever entirely submerged. And, you 
know, I expect a boat to come for me, directly ; besides, even 
if the lad forgets or fails to keep his appointment, Hal will 
certainly miss you and come for you.” 

“ True !” and Kittie’s face brightened. “ How stupid in me. 
Some one will surely be here before long.” 

Still no one came, no voice answered their frantic cries, for 
the wind was dead against them. 

It was a terrible predicament. Howard began to see dimly 
that the whole night might pass before help could be sum- 
moned, even if they escaped drowning, and his heart ached for 
the girl at his side, who, through no fault of her own, would be 
so seriously compromised. He might swim to the shore to ob- 
tain assistance, but the distance was so great, and he was a 
stranger, and feared that he might never reach the shore ; be- 
sides he could not leave Kittie alone on the island to her fate. 
She might be drowned ere he could return with help. 

“ Kittie !” he said, softly, “look I” 

She sprang to her feet, and peered through the shadows. 
The cold, dark water was breaking in tiny ripples against her 


212 


A titbbat, 


feet. Howard took both her cold little hands, and looked into 
her face. 

“My child,” he said, softly, “what if it is death ?” 

Something in her eyes told the whole story. 

Howard’s heart bounded in his bosom, and then stood still. 
He drew her head down upon his shoulder, and gazed into her 
blue eyes. 

“Kittie,” he said, in a low, hushed tone, “it may be death ; 
but if it be God’s will that we should be spared, will you be 
my wife, Kittie?” 

She uttered a glad little cry, and buried her face in her hands. 
She did not stop to think that he had not said, “/ love you.'' 
She did not dream (in her innocence of the world’s wicked ways) 
that he had asked her this question, for her own sake alone, 
and to save her fair name from invidious comment and slander- 
ous tongues ; she only knew that he had asked her, and she. 
faltered, brokenly : 

I will" 

At that moment a loud shout broke the midnight silence, fol- 
lowed by another and another ; then they saw, looming up 
through the dense gloom and darkness, a vessel bearing down 
toward the island. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

ACCUSED. 

Sir John Sydney stood glaring down triumphantly upon the 
white-faced woman, whose dark eyes, full of unquenchable 
hatred, met his own ; and for a time awful silence reigned ; 
broken at last by the baronet, who strode forward and seized her 
arm in his rough grasp. 

“Come,” he hissed, vengefully ; “your game is played out ; 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


213 


your pretty farce is ended ; beware, Lady Geraldine, that it 
does not become a tragedy.” 

** Murderer / beware!'^ 

The words were breathed faintly into his ear. He started, 
and turned deadly pale. Poor Stella’s dying words had never 
been forgotten ; and they still had power to blanch his face and 
strike terror to his heart. 

He trembled violently, and peered curiously about the room ; 
and his eyes, full of horror, fell upon Lola. 

With a muttered curse, he turned as though to fly, then he 
paused, white and terror-stricken. 

Stella he panted, in a frightened tone, “why do you 
come back from your grave to haunt me ?” 

Lola folded her arms upon her bosom, and confronted him 
calmly. 

“John Gordon,” she cried aloud, in her sweet, clear, ring- 
ing voice, “your secret is exposed to the light of day at last. 
I know you — villain ! murderer. My own father — I blush to 
own it — yet your hand struck my mother, Stella Gilroy, down 
in death.” 

His eyes were on her face — riveted there ; for the moment 
even Geraldine was forgotten. 

“ Who — are — you .?” he panted, huskily. 

“Who am I ?” she cried, scornfully, her dark beautiful eyes 
flashing fire. “I am Lola Gordon, your own child, and 
the child of that accursed, thrice accursed marriage, which ” 

“ Marriage !” he interrupted, with stinging emphasis. “Your 
own words condemn yourself. You are a child without a name, 
for there was no marriage in existence between Stella Gilroy — 
if, indeed, she was your mother — and myself. I am not John 
Gordon. You are mad ! I am Sir John Sydney.” 

“You are a villain !” cried Dot, springing forward, no longer 
able to restrain her indignation — “a villain and a murderer! 
You shall be proclaimed as such, and hunted down to the 
fate you deserve I Leave this house I” she panted, passion- 


214 


A s£:vi:njE! mnEAT. 


ately. **How dare you intrude your presence here? And 
as for this lady,” indicating Geraldine as she spoke, ^‘you 
are out of your senses to imagine that she will ever consent 
to go with you, monster that you are ! She will never leave 
this house, save over my dead body !” 

The baronet laughed sneeringly, and laid his hand upon the 
poor girl’s shoulder. She had been sitting all this time staring 
straight before her in frozen, wordless despair, her eyes dark 
and dilated, riveted upon space ; her hands, grown cold and 
clammy, were clasped tightly together ; her breath came and 
went slowly, as though to breathe were an effort. 

Dare to touch me!” she panted, rising slowiy to her 
feet, “and so help me. Heaven, I will kill you ! Sir John 
Sydney, you ask for proof of the truth of this poor girl’s 
story, and why she accuses you of this frightful crime, Lola, 
let this man see the triiiket which you found by your dead 
mother's body when you discovered her in the little cottage, 
not far from Waltham, gashed, and bleeding, and stone dead. 
Let him look upon it, Lola ; perchance he can identify it. / 
have seen Sir John Sydney wear it a hundred times.” 

Slowly Lola Gordon drew forth the emerald sleeve-button, 
and held it up before the baronet’s gaze. 

As his glance fell upon it horror dawned in his eyes ; he 
trembled violently, and a groan escaped his pale lips. He 
glanced quickly and suspiciously around the room, as though 
he feared that a police officer might be lurking in its shadow, 
then, seeing that he had none to contend with save defense- 
less women, he darted suddenly forward and attempted to 
wrest it from her grasp. 

But Lola was not unprepared. She sprang back with a sud- 
den gesture, and drawing a revolver from her bosom, pointed it 
straight at his breast. He saw her finger on the trigger, and the 
look of resolution on her stern, white face, and he drew back 
involuntarily ; then, with an unexpected movement, he struck 
the weapon from her grasp. As it fell to the floor he darted 


A SUVFBi: THREAT. 


216 


forward, and dealt Lola a fearful blow ; then, wrenching the 
jewel from her hand, he thrust it into his own pocket, and 
turning, ere the other two frightened women could raise an 
alarm, he swept Dot from his path as though she had been a 
cobweb, and seizing Geraldine in his arms, he caught up a thick 
shawl from a chair near by, and threw it over her head, com- 
pletely smothering her cries. Then through the door he darted, 
and down the stairs, like a madman. Out into the blackness 
of the night the cowardly ruffian hastened to where a carriage 
stood waiting. Geraldine, apparently lifeless, was thrust inside. 
He sprang in after her, and the carriage rolled away like the 
wind. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

SIR JOHN SHOWS HIS HAND. 

** You are my wife, madam. The law of the land will justify 
my course. I have done more than many men would have 
done, in taking you back at all. The least that you can do in 
return is to obey me, and show me the affection which a wife 
ought to show toward a husband. 

And Sir John Sydney paused, flushed and angry — his small 
eyes glowing with dull fire. Geraldine, standing at the window 
of her own room at Sydney House, laughed scornfully. White, 
and thin, and wan as she was, there was nevertheless a look in 
her eyes which kept the baronet at a distance. 

“Obey you T* she sneered, with cutting scorn. “No, sir, I 
shall never sink so low as that ! Sir John Sydney, I intend to 
force you to do as I demand, for I am going to be rid of you 
effectually. Sir John Sydney, I intend to have you arrested on 
the charge of murder T 

He started and turned pale, and an involuntary shudder 
passed over his bulky frame.- But he smiled derisively. 

“Your proof?” he demanded. 


216 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


*‘I know where to find it when the time comes,” she re- 
turned, icily. She had spoken at random, and she did not 
know that proof was even now at hand — proof which would 
have power to make this man quail, and be the cause of his 
downfall. 

Sir John did not dream to what lengths her spirit of hatred 
and her desire for vengernce would bear her. He had brought 
her back to Sydney House in the face of the gossip and conse- 
quent excitement which threatened to prove of more than the 
traditional nine days' duration. 

He stood watching her now attentively, and there crept into 
his heart a wish that she was really resting in the ancestral tomb 
of the Sydneys. But the time was drawing nigh for the baronet 
to show his hand in this bold game that he was playing. 

“ Geraldine,” he said, slowly, after a silent and prolonged 
survey of her pale, drooping face, “your father was in my power 
when I married you. I sent you his confession. Did you 
read it before you destroyed it ?” 

She glanced into his face with contemptuous eyes. 

“No, I did not,” she answered, slowly. 

He threw his head back and laughed aloud — a coarse, brutal 
laugh. 

“ How well I probed your nature!” he sneered, at length. 
“ You remember that I advised you to burn the paper without 
seeking to know its contents ? Had you opened the document, 
you would have found it a blank!" 

She started, and flashed her dark eyes upon his insolent face. 

“What do you mean.?” she demanded, haughtily. 

“As though I would have given you the true paper!” he 
sneered, “and place myself in your power. Oh, no ! my Lady 
Geraldine ; I was not quite such an idiot. Let me break the 
news to you, my dear. The crime which your father confessed 
to me, was the crime of murder ! More, the murder of Howard 
Ashleigh !” 

“ God in heaven 1” 


A iSSVEBE THREAT. 


217 


The words fluttered from her white lips. Then she checked 
herself with sudden recollection. No matter what she suffered, 
this wretch should not gloat over it — should not have the grat- 
ification of knowing how intense was her agony. 

“Yes/' the baronet went on, slowly, studying her face all 
the time, to see how his words cut, and sank into her quivering 
heart, “it was the murder of Howard Ashleigh. But, Ger- 
aldine, what would you say if I told you (ah, my dear, truth is 
far stranger than fiction, you know !) that Howard Ashleigh was 
no/ murdered — that it was all a mistake. Your father is only a 
murderer in intent, not reality, and you have sacrificed yourself 
on the altar of filial affection, all in vain.” 

She did not speak ; her eyes were gazing straight before her 
into space, and although her pale lips moved slightly, no sound 
escaped them. 

The villain went on, in that same malicious tone : 

“Yes, you have made a martyr of yourself, my dear ; and all 
for naught. Your father is innocent of the young man s death, 
and Howard Ashleigh still lives. What have you to say, Ger- 
aldine?” 

She threw up her hands with a gesture of triumph, and a glad 
light flashed into her dark eyes. 

“What ffave I to say?” she panted, her voice ringing out 
like a silvery trumpet call — “this ! That Howard Ashleigh is 
my husband, and I love him ; if he still lives, I am his wife ; 
and oh, thank God ! thank God ! I am free from youT 

And the scorn and triumph in her voice were beyond ex- 
pression. 

The baronet suppressed a smile. 

“Not so fast, my lady!” he cried, maliciously; “not quite 
so fast ! There are sorrows in this world worse — far worse — 
than death ! You may be as effectually divided as though 
the dark grave lay between you, yet both be living. Read 
this.” 


218 


A SFVFBF TJIJiEAT. 


And he unfolded a newspaper, which all this time he had 
held in his hand, and pointed to a certain paragraph. 

Geraldine read it carefully ; read it twice over, her breath 
leaving her, her eyes wild with horror and despair, her heart 
beating so faintly and low in her breast, that it almost ceased. 
For this was what the fatal paper said : 

“Married, in New Orleans, La., U. S. A., on the 22d ult., Howard 
Ashleigh, Esq., of U. S. Engineer Corps, to Miss Katharine Dexter, of 
New Orleans.’' 

Clutching the paper in her cold, trembling hands, Ger- 
aldine fell to the floor, white and unconscious. Hope had 
indeed died in her breast, and the sun of happiness had set. 

Yet she dreamed not of the awful, horrible future in store 
for her, before which all other horrors paled and vanished. 
But she was destined soon to know, and before another moon 
should wane, she would stand face to face with the tragedy 
of her life. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

DESTINY. 

Slowly the vessel approached, looming up like a weird phan- 
tom through the night and gloom ; and it did not take long 
to get Kittie and her companion safely on board. The poor 
girl was wrapped in rugs and overcoats, and furnished with a 
comfortable seat in a sheltered corner, while Howard, inwardly 
chafing, stalked up and down the deck in no enviable frame 
of mind. He was bound — in honor bound — to a woman 
whom, notwithstanding her sweetness, her purity and womanly 
qualities, he did not love. 

The night was so dark and the wind so strong, that the little 
vessel cast anchor to await the coming of morning ; but when 
the first faint streaks of red began to appear in the eastern 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


219 


sky, they started for Ocean Springs, arriving there at a very 
early hour. Great was the astonishment of Hal Dexter, on 
his return from the city that evening, when he listened to 
Kittie’s story — Kittie, blushing, confused, but oh ! extremely 
happy. Hal stooped and kissed her, 

“Tm awfully glad to hear it, Sis,” he said, earnestly. “I'd 
rather it would be Ashleigh than. any fellow I know, but Kittie” 
— and an unusual gravity settled upon Hal’s handsome face — 
“don't you think it a trifle sudden.? I don’t wish to throw 
cold water upon your happiness, Kit, but I’m bound to look 
after the interests of my only sister ; and I must tell you that, 
only yesterday morning, Ashley told me in that quiet, decided 
way of his, that he should never marry ; that his heart is in 
the tomb with his bride. Did he say that he loved you, 
Kittie ?” 

She shook her head slowly. 

“I — I don’t remember,” she returned ; “ I suppose he inti- 
mated it. Why should he ask me to marry him, Hal, if he 
does not love me .?” 

But Hal Dexter was silent. He remembered the words 
which his friend had let fall the morning before. 

“Howard,” he said, when, a few moments after, the young 
man appeared, and addressing Hal as Kittie’s natural guardian, 
repeated the story which she had already told, and asked his 
permission to make Kittie his wife — “Howard,” and Hal 
grasped his friend’s hand cordially, “ I’ll admit that there’s no 
one in the world to whom I would so soon intrust my sister’s future 
happiness as to yourself; but I would advise you both to wait 
awhile — Kittie, because she is young and inexperienced — you, 
because your wife has not long been dead. And — and — ^you 
surely do not forget the words that you uttered to me yesterday 
morning. Now, my counsel is this — let everything remain as 
it is- -an engagement, if you like, but conditional. Let us go 
abroad. You and I have a good long time on our hands be- 
fore our winter work begins ; we have leave of absence still for 


220 


A MVUBE TIIBBAT. 


several months — why not take Kittie (our aunt, Mrs. Atherton, 
would be delighted to chaperone her) on a trip to Europe ? The 
child has never crossed the water ; we will never have a better 
opportunity — what do you say, Howard? Then, after our re- 
turn home, you and I will go to our respective duties on the 
Red River survey ; Kittie will remain, as usual, in New Orleans, 
with Aunt Atherton ; and in one year’s time she will be pre- 
pared to give a decided answer. ” 

“As you like,” returned Howard, half hating himself for the 
bound which his heart gave. 

The little party arrived in London one damp, foggy day, and 
were soon comfortably situated in a large hotel. 

They had not been long in London when Howard suddenly 
appeared one day in Hal’s chamber, pale as the dead, his eyes 
staring before him, with mute anguish, in his cold hand a por- 
tion of a crumpled, torn, and defaced newspaper. It was a 
fragment of a Waltham journal, consequently it would be im- 
possible to obtain a copy in London, and it contained a portion 
— but sadly mutilated — of the account of that strange resurrec- 
tion from the dead. The names of the parties were not men- 
tioned ; but something — he knew not what — brought a wild 
hope into Howard Ashleigh’s heart, and made his pulses bound. 

When Hal had read the article — all that could be deciphered 
— he caught his friend’s hand. 

“What are you going to do, Howard ?” he whispered. 

“ I am going to Waltham,” was the reply. “ Can you blame 
me, Hal?” ‘ 

He shook his head slowly. 

“Go,” he returned, concisely, “and God help you !” 


A SEVIJUE THBEAT, 


221 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

FACE TO FACE. 

All London was ringing with praises of “Stella” Gordon, 
the new star which had arisen. Dot and Lola had recovered 
from the effects of the brutal blows which had been dealt them 
by the “nobleman,” and were working hard in their chosen 
profession — working with a hope in their loyal hearts of some 
day rescuing Geraldine from the awful fate before her. 

But Lola could not rest. She came to Dot’s side one night, 
before the hour to prepare for the theater. Dot had lately been 
rising steadily in her profession — the result of that application 
and dogged perseverance which sometimes bring about finer 
results than the fatuus flash of genius, which soon burns 
out, and leaves but a blackened mark to show where genius 
had once been. She sat studying her part for the night in 
characteristic fashion ; her head bent over the table where a 
dog-eared book lay, its leaves propped open by a heavy paper- 
weight, her hands over her ears, lest the slightest sound might 
penetrate, and the red, saucy lips pursed up, as she conned her 
lines with eager interest; 

Lola drew near the table ; but, as Dot did not evince any 
knowledge of her presence, at last she ventured to lay a hand 
upon the arm of the actress. 

“ Dot, what are you thinking of? Your eyes are as bright 
as diamonds, and have a far-away look.” 

Dot was blushing "now. 

“I believe I will tell you,” she returned, slowly ; “although 
I suppose you will think me silly. It’s a dream that I had a 
week ago ; and, Lola, will you believe me ? I have dreamed 
the same thing every night since ! I dreamed that I was in 
utter darkness; all about me the most frightful clouds and 


222 


A THREAT, 


gloom ; and I seemed to be whirled away into space upon the 
very wings of the wind. I felt that I was dying ; sinking down 
into utter darkness, and all the lime I could see before me Sir 
John Sydney’s ugly face, and his eyes glared like balls of fire 
into mine, and his voice hissed into my ear, ‘You are in my 
power once jnore ! You will never escape me alive !’ 

“ I closed my eyes, and gave myself up for lost. I could feel 
a sickening sensation of suffocation, and knew that I was nearly 
dead. My breath seemed almost gone. I could feel my pulses 
throb a little, and then stand still ; a bloody mist swam before 
m> eyes ; purple and crimson clouds like fire floated all about 
me. Suddenly I saw a man’s face — a face which I had never 
seen in my waking moments, Lola. His hand parted the fearful 
clouds, and he snatched me from the clutches of Sir John Syd- 
ney. I heard him cry, in glad tones, ‘Saved, oh, thank God !' 
and then I awoke. But, Lola, listen. If ever I see that face 
in reality, if ever I meet that man in this world, I shall know 
him !” 

Lola made no reply, and silence fell between them. Dot’s 
eyes were fixed with unusual thoughtfulness upon the fire which 
burned in the grate. Lola was the first to break the silence. 

“Dot,” she said, “/ have something also to tell you. You 
know to-night ends my engagement at the Coronet Theater. 
Well, I have made up my mind. I am going to Waltham ; 
going to Sydney House ; going to find the missing link which 
will convict the murderer of my mother.” 

“ Lola !” 

“lam going. Dot. I must. I feel convinced that it is best. 
Poor Geraldine has no power to act. She is dying there, in her 
splendid prison. It devolves upon me. I shall see Mr. Tem- 
plemore to-night. He expects me to renew my engagament at 
the theater, but I shall tell him that it is impossible. Though, 
in the future, I may be glad to come back to him for a 
situation.” 

An hour later the curtain at the Coronet went up. The play 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


223 


progressed. Dot did her level best and received well deserved 
applause and several floral offerings. All of a sudden she raised 
her eyes to a proscenium box occupied by two ladies and a gen- 
tleman. Her face grew as white as the face of a dead person, 
her eyes dilated wildly, she caught her breath quickly, and then, 
turning away resolutely, she went on with her part. She was 
called before the curtain at the close of the performance. Among 
the bouquets showered upon her was a bunch of white roses — no 
other blossoms — ^just the snowy, innocent, fragrant roses. She 
stooped and picked up the bouquet, and bore it away in her 
hand. Pale and breathless, she sought Lola in the greenroom. 

“Lola! Lola I” she panted, eagerly. “I have seen him! 
Those flowers came from him ! Oh, it is just like a fairy tale 1” 

“Seen whom ?” queried Lola. “ I do not understand you. 
Dot.” 

Dot averted her head. 

“The man whose face I saw in my dream,” she answered. 
“You need not look so incredulous, Lola. I told you I would 
know him if I ever saw him. He was in front to-night, and — 
and — Lola, don't laugh ; that's too bad — I feel sure that I shall 
meet him again.” 


CHAPTER XXVH. 

ARRAIGNED ! 

There are born avengers in this world ; spirits whose mission 
it is to bring punishment upon the guilty, who know no mercy, 
and whose hearts are steeled to pity. I think Geraldine Ver- 
non was one of these rare characters, for never once, sleeping 
or waking, did she waver, or forget her determination to punish 
this man, who, brutal wretch though he was, yet called himself 
her husband. 

The suite of apartments which she occupied communicated 
with each other, and with the doors well screened she remained 


m 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


in solitude. Standing, gazing out upon the bright-hued forest, 
touched with autumn’s glorifying hand, she heard the door open 
softly. She had given the key to her maid — a trusty soul ; so 
thinking it the girl, Geraldine turned slowly. 

“ Lady Sydney !” 

She started and suppressed an exclamation. A sister of charity 
stood before her, her eyes bent modestly upon the floor. A 
strange thrill went through Geraldine’s heart. 

“Were you sent here, sister?” she queried. 

The sister drew a little nearer. 

“Yes,” she responded, gently. “I was sent here to help 
you, Geraldine,” extending her arms. “Don’t you know me?” 

Lola!" she faltered, in amazement. “Can it be ?” 

“Yes, dear. You ought to know that I would come to you 
as soon as possible. ' My engagement at the Coronet ended last 
night, and I came on here at once. Now, dear, just listen !” 
She forced Geraldine into a seat, and threw herself on an otto- 
man near. “I have determined that justice shall be done. Are 
you with me, Geraldine ?” 

Her eyes flashed. 

“To the death !” she answered ; “but, Lola, what can we do, 
poor, friendless women ? You see that my solitary life has made 
me weak and discouraged, dear.” 

“ AW friendless,” corrected Lola, “for God has promised to 
be the friend of the poor and oppressed, and — right is might, 
Geraldine.” 

“Sometimes,” responded Geraldine, gravely. 

“ I have come now,” Lola went on, quickly, “ into the lion’s 
den, because it stands to reason that here, if anywhere, proof 
exists of the truth of my accusation ; such proof as shall force 
the world to believe what I know to be true. Now, Geraldine, 
listen to my plan. I have come here in this disguise, so that 
in case I am delayed here any length of time, you can pretend 
to be ill, and I — a sister of charity— have called to see you. 
But I must have an opportunity to search Sir John Sydney's 


A SJSVUBE THREAT. 


225 


private rooms in his absence. It may consume time ; but, on 
the other hand, I may find what I seek at once. 

An hour passed. Thirty minutes more. Then upon the 
door of Geraldine’s room came a single faint tap. She opened 
it quickly, and Lola — pale as a ghost — staggered into the 
room. 

“ Found!” she faltered, breathlessly. “ Oh, thank Heaven!” 

Geraldine sprang forward in wild excitement. Her eyes 
blazed with exultation, her pale face flushed with triumph. 
She felt no qualms of compunction — naught save the gnawing 
desire to punish this man who had ruined and cursed her whole 
existence. 

“Tell me !” she panted, eagerly — “for mercy’s sake tell me 
quickly 1” 

:i|c ^ :>|c )ic ^ 

The next morning, when Sir John Sydney left Sydney House 
for a ride, he was suddenly confronted, just as he was about to 
spring upon his horse, by two police officers. 

“Sir John Sydney,” said one, laying his hand upon the 
baronet’s shoulder as he spoke, “it is a painful duty, and I 
suppose the whole thing is a mistake ; but it’s my orders, and 
I arrest you in the name of the law.” 

The baronet staggered back a few paces, and his red face 
blanched to a ghastly white. 

“What do you mean?” he demanded, furiously. “What 
— is the charge, you scoundrel ?” 

“Of course you’ll make it all right,” returned the man, 
soothingly, “ but the fact is, it’s an ugly charge. It’s murder, 
my lord—the murder of one — Stella Gordon, about a year 
ago.” 

“It is false I” bawled the baronet, attempting to break from 
the man’s hold. But he only tightened his grasp on the 
baronet’s shoulder. 

“You’ll have plenty of chance to prove all that, my lord,” 


226 


A THREAT. 


he returned, quietly. All you have to do now is to come with 
us. Fortunately for your lordship, the court is sitting at Wal- 
tham court-house, and I have orders to bring you there im- 
mediately for a preliminary examination. ” 

Sir John relapsed into moody silence, deciding that dis- 
cretion was the better part of valor, and so was led quietly 
away. 

In the meantime the story of the baronet’s arrest had leaked 
out, and an immense crowd flocked about the court-house. 
After the first formalities, Lola was placed upon the stand, and 
sworn as the most important witness. Sir John’s little gray eyes 
fairly scintillated as they fell upon her, and he looked as 
though he could tear her to pieces. A buzz of admiration 
went around the crowded room at sight of h'er beautiful face. 
The judge gave her a piercing glance. 

“Your name.?” he demanded. 

Lola’s eyes met his gravely. 

“ Lola Gilroy Gordon,” she answered. 

“Look at the prisoner, witness,” proceeded the judge. 
“ Have you ever seen him before 

Lola’s lip curled scornfully as she obeyed. 

“ I have seen him before,” she answered, briefly, “a great 
many times,” 

“Who is he .? What is his name ?” 

“ He is Sir John Sydney, of Sydney House, near Waltham,” 
she anwered, slowly ; “but when / first knew him he went by 
the name of John Gordon.” 

The baronet started, and a low murmur went around the 
court-room. 

“ It is a lie !” he muttered. 

“When did you first meet him?” continued the imperturb- 
able voice of the judge. 

“I have known him all my life,” she answered, slowly. 
“ Your honor, I am ashamed to acknowledge the truth, but the 


A SHVIJUB THREAT, 227 

prisoner, Sir John Sydney, is my own father, and the murderer 
of my mother.” 

The scene which followed beggars description. When at last 
quiet was restored, Lola began at the beginning, and in her 
sweet voice, in well chosen words, told her story — that story of 
wrong and anguish, and suffering and crime. 

“Two days ago,” she said, in conclusion, “ I came to Syd- 
ney House in disguise, determined to search for proof, if any 
existed there, and I felt impressed that such was the case. I 
made a faithful search. I found what I sought. First, here is 
the sleeve-button, of which I have already spoken. You will 
find its mate in Sir John Sydney’s jewel-box. This is the one 
which I found beside mother’s body. I know it by this 
mark. Of course, you may say that I might have abstracted the 
button for the purpose of criminating this man ; but listen : In 
a small closet in Sir John Sydney’s bed-chamber I found a cedar- 
wood chest. It was locked ; but I had come prepared for such 
emergencies, and I was not long in opening it. I found there, 
hidden away in that chest, a suit of clothes, rolled up tightly, 
and covered with stains of blood. In one of the pockets was this 
card and she drew forth a small visiting-card, on the back of 
which an ominous crimson stain was discernible. “Upon it is 
written, in Sir John Sydney’s handwriting : 

“ ‘ Mem : — I must go and see “ *S” to-night, at cottage near 

W , and get certificate of marriage from her possession ; 

musl get her out of my way somehow. ’ 

“If any other evidence is required,” she continued, slowly, 
“here, gaze upon this and she drew forth a small dagger, all 
rusted and corroded with thick, dark stains. “Gentlemen,” 
she cried, in a clear, low, heart-broken tone, ^Uhis is my 
mother s blood T 

Groans and execrations rent the air as Lola sat down. Sir 
John sprang to his feet like a madman. 

“ What is the meaning of this farce ?” he shrieked. “What 
does all this mummery prove ? It is well known that this 


228 


A SEVERE THREAT, 


girl is an actress. Undoubtedly she knows how to play her 
part. I demand an investigation. Other and more substantial 
proof than sleeve-buttons, and blood-stained daggers, and such, 
all of which could be forthcoming to order. I demand other 
than circumstantial evidence of my guilt. /, Sir John Sydney, 
arraigned by the charge of a petty play-actor ! I demand proof 
which is ” 

Here /" cried a clear, distinct voice. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

WORSTED. 

Geraldine paced slowly up and down the floor of her sump- 
tuous chamber ; her head bent, and a look of triumph upon her 
pale, statuesque features. 

She did not yet know the result of Sir John’s examination at 
Waltham court-house. Lola had not returned, but something 
assured Geraldine that all was as she desired, and she was will- 
ing to wait for further knowledge. There came a faint tap upon 
the door of the room at last, and thinking it Lola, she hastened 
to open it. 

She drew back with a stifled cry, for there upon the threshold 
stood her father — her father whom she had not seen for many 
months. 

‘*You wish to see Sir John Sydney, perhaps?” she asked, 
coldly. ‘‘You will find him at Waltham court-house 
—perhaps by this time in prison, where he should have been 
long ago.” 

Lionel Vernon strode over the threshold, and closing the 
door behind him, turned the key ; then he faced his daughter 
with a stern, white face, and a look in his eyes not good to see. 

“ I have come to ask — nay, demand of you,” he said, slowly, 
** what hand you had in this ridiculous affair ?” 


A MVUBJS THREAT. 


229 


** Meaning the arrest of Sir John Sydney?” questioned Ger- 
aldine. 

“ Meaning the arrest of Sir John Sydney,” he returned. 

She laughed a low, mirthless laugh. 

“ I will tell you,” she answered. ‘‘I did everything in my 
power to help Lola ! Gave her free access to the rooms where 
she felt intuitively that she would find the evidence of his guilt ; 
and she found it, too ! I sent then to Waltham for a couple of 
officers, and had the gentleman taken away. I trust that he 
will sleep in Waltham jail to-night.” 

“ Girl, you have gone mad !” 

* He had drawn back a few paces, his face working convulsively 
with strong emotion ; it had grown deadly white, and a strange, 
wild gleam came into his keen eyes. He came nearer at last, 
and laid one hand upon his daughter’s arm. 

‘ ‘ Geraldine, you are beside yourself. If you do not soon 
attempt to control your wicked temper, you shall be placed in 
close confinement. Do you know that in your present frame 
of mind, it would be an easy matter to pronounce you insane — 
and — treat you accordingly ? I begin to think that Sir John is 
about right, for he thinks that a removal to a private insane 
asylum would be ” 

** Do I understand you, Lionel Vernon, to say that Sir Jphn 
Sydney contemplates removing me to an insane asylum ?” 

“It is the proper place for you,” her father returned 
doggedly ; “and if he is held a prisoner, the duty will devolve 
upon me. I fancy that will bring you to yoiir senses, my lady. ” 

“That is not the question, sir,” returned his daughter, 
frigidly. “I ask you, Mr. Vernon, once more, does that 
wretch. Sir John Sydney, threaten to place me in an asylum for 
the insane ? And he knows that I am not mad !” 

Lionel Vernon smiled a disagreeable smile. 

“He knows that you are not mad, certainly, only so far as 
your senseless hatred and persecution of himself is concerned, 


230 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


And he does contemplate removing you to an insane asylum, 
there to remain until you come to your senses.” 

For answer, Geraldine turned to a tiny, curtained alcove 
near. It held a piano, and the crimson velvet curtains were 
drawn closely. She lifted them slowly, and Lionel Vernon saw, 
with a quick start of alarm and dismay, that Geraldine's maid 
sat there, white and still as a statue. 

You have heard what Mr. Vernon has said, have you not.^^” 
Geraldine asked, addressing the frightened girl. 

“Yes, my lady ; I heard it every word.” 

“ Repeat those words as nearly as you can. ” 

“ He said, my lady, that Sir John was going to place you in* 
an insane asylum, although he knows you are not insane, to 
force you to submit to his wishes. ” 

“Very good ! You would be able to repeat those words in 
a court of law ?” 

“I would, my lady.” 

Geraldine smiled triumphantly. 

“I think that you are worsted in ihis battle, Mr. Lionel 
Vernon,” she said, coldly. 

And, crushing an imprecation between his set teeth, the 
miserable villain left the room, and the house itself. 

Geraldine breathed freely once more. The blow was warded 
off, and, for the present, she was safe. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

LADY VENETIANS OATH. 

Lola had left the court-room, and had gone out to breathe 
the fresh air, for she was very faint and weak from excitement, 
and the rehearsal of her mother's wrongs — that sad story of an 
unhappy marriage, sin, shame, and crime. 

All of a sudden she came to a halt, and a low cry escaped 


A THBEAT. 


231 


her lips, although she would have given anything for power to 
repress it, for there before her, tall, handsome, and stately, 
stood Lloyd Vernon, his dark eyes fixed upon her startled face. 
He held out both his hands eagerly. 

“ Lola !” he cried. 

“When did you come home.?” she queried, not daring to 
glance into his face. 

“Home.?” he repeated, with bitter emphasis. “I have 
none. I arrived in England two days ago. Lola, I have heard 
all, all the strange, wild story — how my sister was rescued 
— and by whom — from her terrible fate. 1 have j^ou to thank, 
bright, brave, darling, that she was saved ” 

“But to be lost again,” interrupted Lola. “Oh, Mr. 
Vernon, you do not know how nearly insane I was when I 
found that he — that wretch — had carried Geraldine away 
again, first stealing from me the only proof of his own crime, 
of whose existence I knew. You have heard all ?” she added, 
with a quiver in her voice. 

“All. And, Lpla, since I have found you here alone, I beg 
you to listen to me, for I cannot wait to tell you my story. Dar- 
ling, I love you ! 1 have loved you since I first saw you ! Sit 

down upon this seat under the lime tree and listen — will you, 
Lola, while I tell you the shameful story of my past .?” 

Pale and trembling, she faced him bravely. 

“Lloyd Vernon,” she faltered, “you forget yourself. Where 
is Lady Venetia.?” 

“I am free!” he answered. “Lola, for Heaven’s sake do 
not imagine that I would insult you by words of love without 
the legal right to speak them ! I am going to tell you my sad 
story now, and let you judge for yourself wherein I have sinned 
and have been sinned against. ” 

And, sitting under the waving shadow of the lime tree at his 
side, Lola listened while Lloyd Vernon repeated the sad story of his 
past. He spared Lady Venetia nothing, but revealed her machi- 


23a 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


nations and bold plot to secure him as her husband because of 
the mad passion which possessed her heart. 

So absorbed were they under the whispering lime tree that 
they did not perceive the slender figure which crouched directly 
behind the tree— a very white face, with steely eyes glinting 
with a murderous light, and a revolver pointed — pointed straight 
at Lola Gordon, one white, jeweled finger upon the trigger. 

I am going to record something now which I know my read- 
ers will not credit. They will sneer at the idea and laugh the 
tale to scorn. But, sitting there, Lloyd Vernon suddenly heard 
a voice — his mind engrossed by the story of his love which he 
was repeating — a faint voice, which whispered in his ear. It 
said, softly : 

Look r 

He started in amazement. Again it whispered, faint and far 
away : 

" ‘ Look behind you L ' 

He sprang to his feet and wheeled abruptly. He saw the 
kneeling figure of Lady Venetia Chandos, the weapon pointed 
straight at Lola. Suppressing an oath, the young man sprang 
forward and dashed the weapon aside. 

There was a loud report, and the ball buried itself harmlessly 
in the green grass a few feet distant. 

With a gesture of loathing, he caught Lady Venetians arm in 
a vise-like grip, and drew her upon her feet, confronting her 
with a face pale and cold as marble. 

“ Murderess he hissed, his teeth crushed together hard, his 
eyes glittering with the fires of hatred burning in their dusky 
depths. “For the second time you are defeated in your mur- 
derous designs ! I have a mind to kill you where you stand, 
you fa»lse, cruel, treacherous thing !” 

She turned her turquois eyes upon his face and laughed. 

“ I have sworn to kill her I” she panted. 

“So sure as any harm befalls her,” returned Lloyd Vernon, 
sternly, “ I will take your life ! You have no longer any claim 
upon me, or my forbearance, thank Heaven 1” 

She started, and her face grew slowly white ; but the devil 
lurked in her bewildering eyes. 

“What do you mean ? ’ she faltered. 

“I mean this. Lady Venetia Chandos ! The farce of mar- 
riage between us is at an end. 7 am a free man, and you can 
marry whomsoever you will. When you go home to Chandos 
Park you will find the news awaiting you. A year ago I warned 


A SFVEBB THREAT. 


233 


jou that I intended to apply for a divorce on the ground of in- 
compatibility of temper, since that plea is recognized in some 
States of America, and I cared not upon what ground of com- 
plaint I founded my attempt, so that I could honorably procure 
my freedom. A notice of the application was sent you 
long ago. I have just returned from America ; a judgment 
has been rendered, giving us both our freedom, with the priv- 
ilege of marrying again. The former marriage is a dead secret 
here. You can wed whomsoever you please, and no one will be 
the wiser in regard to your first matrimonial venture. I care 
not what becomes of you, my lady, so that you never cross my 
path again.” 

She had stood quite still while he was speaking. Her pallid 
face was unaltered ; but there was a curious gleam in the depths 
of her beautiful eyes. Until now she had never believed that 
the divorce would be granted. 

Suddenly sh#- sprang forward, and falling upon her knees be- 
fore the two who watched her with strange emotions, she lifted 
her white face toward heaven. Her long golden hair, falling 
loose, fell over her shoulders, reaching to the ground ; her face 
could be no whiter — it was absolutely corpse-like. She lifted 
her two small, jeweled hands, and tore the wedding-ring from 
her finger. 

“ Here !” she panted, tossing it upon the green grass at his 
feet, this ring I thee wed.’ Those were the words, 

Lloyd Vernon ! See ! I give it back to you I Go ! marry the 
woman of your choice if you dare ! But listen ! You and the 
serpent yonder, who stole from me my very hopes of Eden ; hear 
me swear once again the oath that I have already sworn. So 
help me. Heaven ! if you wed that woman at your side, you 
shall rue it to your dying day ! I will make her existence a 
hell ; and when I am ready, I will take her life ! I care for 
nothing in this world ; and, as for a future life — ha ! ha ! what 
can be worse than existence Do you understand me? 

Do you believe me ? While I live, Lola Gordon shall never 
be your wife !” 

And Lady Venetia Chandos kept her oath inviolate. 

A loud cry from within the court-room startled them ; and 
as Lady Venetia arose and swept past them, with superb dis- 
dain, Lloyd and Lola put their own griefs aside and entered the 
building^ making their way into the still crowded court-room. 
A strange scene was taking place ; they paused in consternation 
and alarm 1 


234 


A SEFEBJ^ TBBEAT. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

AN UNEXPECTED WITNESS. 

Here !” repeated the voice which had answered (most un- 
expectedly) Sir John Sydney’s frantic demand for positive proof 
of his own guilt. Every eye was strained with eager interest, as 
a woman arose and pressed forward through the throng. She 
made her way to the front, the crowd opening respectfully for 
her to pass. 

The judge wiped his spectacles, and gazed upon her in blank 
surprise. 

“What is the meaning of this interruption.?” he demanded. 

The woman turned 'slowly, and lifting her thick vail, disclosed 
an elderly, care-worn face, with strongly marked features, 
piercing black eyes, and grizzled hair which had once been the 
same ebon hue. 

“You are examining Sir John Sydney on the charge of the 
murder of one Stella Gordon, are you not .?” she questioned, 
her language quite correct, though with a strong foreign ac- 
cent. 

The judge bowed, impressed somehow to treat her civilly. 

“ We are, madam. But what is that to you ?” 

“A great deal, your honor. I have evidence most important. 
Sir John demanded it, you will observe, and you will find, if 
you choose to listen, that my testimony will quite fill the bill 
desired by the gentleman himself.” 

“Let the witness be sworn,” commanded the judge. “You 
are aware, madam, that this is merely the preliminary examina- 
tion ; no counsel expected ” 

“And / tell you,” interrupted the woman, eagerly, “that I 
know enough about the affair to the guilty party ! Isn’t 

that enough .? ’ 

“Let the witness be sworn,” repeaded the judge, imperturb- 
ably ; and the ceremony was performed. 

“Your name, madam?” demanded his honor, settling him- 
self to the task before him with an air of resignation. 

“ Your honor, may I ask a favor?” was the woman’s strange 
reply. “ I would like the prisoner to identify me if you have 
no objection.” 

The judge nodded. * . _ . i 


A THHUAT. 


235 


' **As you will,” he returned. “Sir John Sydney, look at 
this woman — the witness just sworn — do you know her name?” 

Slowly the baronet turned his blood-shot eyes upon the old 
woman s face. All the blood seemed to forsake his own, as his 
white lips faltered, involuntarily : 

Zingr a r 

She smiled. 

“I thought you would recognize me,” she cried, triumphantly. 
“Ah, John Gordon, your game is up! Now, your honor” 
(and she turned to the astonished judge), “if it please the 
court, I am ready to proceed. My name is Zingra Delle ; I sup- 
pose I am of gipsy descent, but I never knew my parents, and was 
only a poor, friendless, stray creature, until Stella Gilroy gave 
me a home and treated me like a human being. It was in the 
pretty village of Greenfields, Lincolnshire, that I first knew her. 
She was an orphan and beautiful — well, you have only to look 
upon her daughter to know what she was like then ; she was 
young, too, and had no one to protect her ; so when she fell 
into the clutches of that wretch. Sir John Sydney, she was like 
a dove in the talons of a hawk. He courted her under the 
name of John Gordon, and represented himself as an artist, 
traveling about the country. He won all her love, and there in 
pretty Greenfields the two were married, lawfully married, and 
I— Zingra Delle — and the clergyman's brother were witnesses. 
The record can be found at the little Church of St. Stephen, at 
Greenfields. 

“ Well, they lived in Paradise for a time, and the little Lola 
was born. When she was a small child, John Gordon insisted 
on taking his wife and babe away to the south of France, and I 
insisted on accompanying them. I had never liked John Gor- 
don, as he called himself. I doubted and distrusted him. But 
I never dreamed of his real rank and station ; I never dreamed that 
he was a baronet, neither did the woman whom he wedded ; 
she lived and died in ignorance of it all. 

“For years we lived in the south of France, John Gordon 
coming occasionally for a few days' visit. Lola grew up, and was 
well educated at the Convent of St. Mary's. But, as the girl 
grew older, she became possessed with the demon of discon- 
tent. She never loved her father ; she seemed to doubt his 
truth and honor. He had not come to see them in a long 
time. Finally, his visits ceased altogether, and only the money 
which he sent served to remind the girl that she had a father. 
The baronet was foolish enough to mail his letters to his wife 


236 


A SEVERE THREAT,. 


from Waltham post-office. So, knowing his whereabouts, she 
at last yielded to Lola’s entreaties, and came to Waltham. Al- 
most the first person whom she met after her arrival was her 
husband. He was terribly annoyed at her unexpected appear- 
ance ; and, at last, ended by placing his wife and child, with 
myself, in a cottage buried in a lonely lane, making her swear 
to keep secret the fact that she was his wife. We lived there 
for several months, Lola sometimes singing at the rich houses, 
and thus making a little money, which we needed sadly, for the 
villain finally ceased to provide at all for his family. 

“One night Lola went to sing at one of the fine houses. I, 
as usual, accompanied her After a time a violent storm burst 
forth ; and I, knowing that the girl had come out unprovided 
with a cloak, hastened back to the cottage to procure them. 
Arrived there, in the darkness and fast gathering tempest, I 
was startled by hearing voices within. Something prompted me 
to go to the window and glance in. Gentlemen, I swear to 
you that I saw John Gordon — that man yonder — siab his wife 
to the heart, and she fell dead upon the floor. In my horror, 
fright, agony, I ran from the spot, shrieking and screaming in 
wild despair. On, on I flew, never pausing until I was back at 
Waltham. There I found, to my dismay, that Lola had gone 
home. Knowing the horrible sight that would await her there, 
I started to return, for I would have died to have saved her 
from that awful spectacle. But, half way through the forest, I 
was seized by some one, and a cloth thrown over my head, and 
I was borne away. 

“ When I opened my eyes again, I was on board a vessel far 
out at sea. I soon discovered that the captain — a villainous 
fellow — had been bribed to put me out of the way ; but Heaven 
interposed ; and at last, after months of hardship and privation, 
I have managed to get free ; and just in time, thank Heaven, 
to give my testimony. I swear that John Gordon, or Sir John 
Sydney — that man yonder — is the murderer ®f Stella Gilroy 
Gordon, his wife !” 

A deep silence fell like a pall, broken by an unexpected ap- 
parition. Hurrying through the crowded court-room, pale as a 
specter, came Geraldine. She moved forward, and, in a low, 
tense tone, demanded to be sworn as a witness. 

“A witness, my lady!” gasped the astonished judge. “I 
do not understand you. Surely, not against Sir John Sydney ?’" 

Her white, resolute face grew sterner. 

“ Against Sir John Sydney, your honor,” she answered, curtly. 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


237 


But, my lady, the law does not receive testimony from a 
wife against her husband. You are Sir John Sydney’s wife, my 
lady. ” 

She drew her lithe form up proudly, and glanced fearlessly 
into the face of the judge. 

“You are mistaken,” she replied. “I am no/ Sir John 
Sydney’s wife 1” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

RESCUED. 

Night after night Dot Wylde beheld the same face in the pro- 
scenium-box at the Coronet ; and, somehow, the happiest mo- 
ments of her life seemed those passed “upon the boards.” 
Lola’s departure had filled the girl’s faithful heart with keenest 
regret. She missed Lola constantly ; but since the errand 
upon which she had gone was so commendable, Dot could only 
stifle her own emotions and pray earnestly for her friend’s suc- 
cess. To the little actress there was a keen pleasure now in 
her profession. In all the great audience which nightly greeted 
her, Dot Wylde played for one person alone. Every impulse 
of her being was stimulated to please that one critic, who every 
night appeared in the same box, with the same floral offering - 
a bunch of snowy roses. Had careless, insouciant little Dot 
found her fate at last ? 

She bent all her energies to the task before her, improving 
so wonderfully as to elicit applause from Mr. Templemore, 
who hinted at an increase of salary. 

So time passed, and slowly but surely came the crisis in Dot 
Wylde’s life. One night the play was “Lear.” Some bright 
particular star portrayed the mad old king, and the leading lady 
being ill, Dot was chosen to essay the part of Cordelia. She 
had never hoped for this opportunity, and she bent all her 
energies to the task, with a very creditable result. And, as 
usual, her inspiration, that face, smiled at her from the usual 
place, while at the close of the performance the bunch of roses 
was thrown at her feet. She stooped and picked them up, with 
a shy little glance toward their giver ; then, with a graceful in- 
clination of the head, she disappeared behind the curtain. 

Once alone in the dingy little dressing-room. Dot glanced 
cautiously about, to make sure that she was not observed ; then 
she pressed her lips to the fragrant flowers. As she did so she 


238 


A SJSrmH THBBAT, 


caught a glimpse of something hidden in the heart of the bou- 
quet, and, with trembling fingers, she drew forth a handsome 
diamond ring, attached to a slip of silky paper. 

Paling and flushing by turns. Dot opened the paper and saw 
these words, written in a bold, decided hand : 

“ Miss Wylde : Will you accept this trifling gift, and with it the high- 
est appreciation and regard of one who begs to subscribe himself 

“Your friend, Halton Dexter ?” 

For a moment Dot stood, the hand holding the note 
pressed close to her heart, her eyes shining, her face lit up with 
pleasure. 

“ I have found out his name,” she exclaimed ; but,” as her 
eyes fell on the ring, “ I wish he had not sent me that ! Any- 
body can give me a jewel ; but he ” 

She turned the ring over and over — a handsome solitaire ; 
she slipped it on her finger ; then, with a guilty blush, tore it 
off again, and hid it in her bosom. 

There was a rap at the door ; it opened a few inches, and a 
blonde, frizzled head was thrust in. It was the soubrette of the 
company. 

“ Dot,” she cried, gayly, ^‘what are you mooning about in 
here alone } Come into the greenroom ; there is a gentleman 
there asking to see you.” 

And, wondering greatly. Dot complied. She found herself 
in the presence of a stranger — an elderly man, with an air of 
deep humility. 

“ Miss Wylde.?” he interrogated. 

Dot bowed. 

‘ ‘ I am sent to you on a painful errand, ” continued the 
stranger. “ Your friend. Miss Lola Gordon” — Dot started and 
turned pale — “just returned to London, has met with a serious 
accident, and lies very ill at the Denham House ; she begs you 
to come to her at once. See ; she managed to write this :” 

And he produced a card, upon which was feebly scrawled : 

“Please come, dear Dot. Lola.” 

Dot’s sole answer was to turn to a chair beside her, upon 
which a cloak was lying. Then, suddenly remembering that 
she still wore her stage costume, she begged the messenger to 
wait a moment, and, hastening back to her dressing-room, 
changed her attire for the plain street suit which she had worn 
to the theater, tied on a hat and vail, and, returning, pro- 
nounced herself ready. 


A SUVEBB TBBEAZ 


239 


There was not a single misgiving in her heart, as she followed 
her conductor down the narrow staircase, out into the black 
night. She followed him to where a closed carriage was stand- 
ing ; he placed her within, and seated himself on the opposite 
seat, and not until they were driven rapidly away did Dot 
realize that she had done an extremely imprudent thing. Some- 
thing struck terror to her heart. 

“Stop the carriage,'' she panted, her eyes shining in the 
gloom with intense excitement. “I — I want to get out.” 

The man laughed. 

Dot started to her feet with a sudden cry. The carriage was 
flying onward like the wind. 

“Stop!” shouted the girl once more; but there was no 
answer, save the mocking laugh of the man on the seat oppo- 
site. A spirit of frenzy took possession of the girl. Tearing off 
her cloak she wrapped it tightly around her right arm, and with 
all her strength struck a blow upon the window glass, which 
shivered it into fragments. Help! Murder T she shrieked 
wildly. 

There w^as a gurgling sound as the man threw the cloak over 
her head — a few struggles — and she sank passively upon the 
seat, and the odor of chloroform filled the vehicle. 

“ Halt ! in the name of the law !” 

The words fell like thunderbolts upon the ear of the wretch 
in the carriage. He tossed the senseless form of the poor girl 
upon the seat, and springing to the broken window, shouted 
aloud to the driver : 

“ Drive on ! Drive on — like the wind to the railroad sta- 
tion i Five hundred pounds if you get off safe !” 

But strong hands seized the bridles of the horses, they were 
thrown upon their haunches, and a posse of police, headed by 
the tall, soldierly figure of Hal Dexter, appeared at the carriage 
door. Poor Dot was lifted out, and still senseless, was con- 
veyed to the hotel, where Kittie and Mrs. Atherton received 
her, and strove to restore her to consciousness. 

Hal Dexter, lounging outside the theater, in hopes of seeing 
Dot when she came forth, had fortunately overheard a portion 
of the diabolical plot which the ruffian had arranged with the 
driver of the carriage, and had determined to keep his eyes on 
the pair, which he had done, with the fortunate result already 
recorded. 

When Dot came back to consciousness it was to find herself 
lying on a crimson couch, in a handsome room, and Kittie and 


240 


A TBBFAT. 


Mrs. Atherton bending over her. Memory struggled back to 
her at last. She recalled the startling occurrences which had 
just taken place, and lifting her eyes they fell upon the graceful 
figure of Hal Dexter, who had ventured into the room. In an 
instant she understood. The red blood rushed in a burning 
tide over neck, and brow, and cheek. She held out her hand, 
and the old sauciness struggled back. 

“ I suppose," she began, wearily, “that I ought to arise and 
shriek aloud, ‘ Oh, my pre-e-server !’ as they do in the five-act, 
sensational dramas ; but you’ll have to take the will for the 
deed, Mr. Dexter, for, really, my head is so weak I cannot 
raise it ; and — and — I thank you very much for all that you 
have done for me." 

Her voice had grown very soft and tender. I am not sure 
but that there were tears in her eyes. Hal seated himself 
beside the couch, and taking the little hand, bent his head 
over it. 

“ Don’t mention it, Miss Wylde,” he returned; “as Toots 
would say, ‘ it’s of no consequence,’ and really I would sacrifice 
my life to save yours.” 

I think she read his secret. I know that she grew altern- 
ately white and red, and trembled violently. She turned her 
eyes away, and Hal Dexter forgot to relinquish her hand. Dot 
lay silent and thoughtful. She was thinking of her strange 
dream, and how it came true. 

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than 
are dreamed of in your philosophy, ’’ she quoted to herself. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

‘^CHOOSE BETWEEN US." 

There was a suppressed murmur in the court-room as those 
unexpected words fell from Geraldine’s lips. Sir John Sydney 
turned his blood-shot eyes upon her, and his face grew livid 
with rage and hatred. 

“A wife may not testify against her husband, but I am not 
Lady Sydney, and never have been. I am the wife of Howard 
Ashleigh. I was married in Scotland two years ago.” 

There was a slight bustle in one corner of the court-room, 
and a young man, white to the very lips, sank into a seat, 
catching his breath meanwhile with terrible eflfort. But the in- 


A SEVEBE THREAT. 


241 


tense consternation and surprise pervading the entire audience 
were too. genuine to admit of any outside interest, and all waited 
with suspended breath while Geraldine began and told her 
strange story from beginning to end ; even to the threat of Sir 
John Sydney to imprison her in an asylum for the insane. Ger- 
aldine’s voice rang out clear and stern and defiant, and she con- 
cluded : 

“Of m? father, of Lionel Vernon,” she said, “I have 
nothing to ay. I have no friends. My brother is absent, and 
there is no one whose protection I can claim.” 

The young man in the secluded corner of the court-room 
arose, and made his way from the place. Adjoining the court- 
house was the great, old-fashioned village church, and the 
grave-yard, which for centuries had received the dead of the sur- 
rounding country. He went straight to the tomb of the Syd- 
neys, and seated himself on a rustic seat nearby. In the mean- 
time the case was postponed for the present, until the proper 
and customary formalities could be observed ; and Sir John 
Sydney was marched off to the village jail, followed by an ugly 
crowd, which threatened to become a mob, and take justice 
into their own hands. 

Just as Geraldine turned to leave the court-room she saw, 
hastening toward her, her brother. 

“ My poor sister !” he cried, folding her to his breast. “You 
need never again complain of being alone in the world. It has 
not been my fault that we were not together long ago. ” 

After the first joy of the reunion was over, Geraldine, pale 
and faint, leaning on Lloyd’s arm, went out into the open air, 
Lola accompanying them. They entered the old grave-yard, 
and began to pace up and down the grassy walks. 

All of a sudden Geraldine came to an abrupt halt ; her face 
white as death, her dark eyes dilating with surprise, wonder ; 
her breath coming in gasps, her small hands outstretched, 
pointing to the great tomb of the Sydneys. 

“Look, look!” she panted, wildly. “It is Howard Ash- 
leigh I Oh, my God, I thank thee !” 

She tottered forward a few paces. The young man arose and 
drew near, pale and trembling. 

“ Howard I” she panted, “A it really true?” 

His arms were about her in an instant, his lips showered 
fond kisses upon her pale face. 

“ I was in the court-room,” he cried ; “I have heard all your 
Strange story. There is no need of explanation. Qh,- Ger- 


242 


A. i^EVEHE. THRE^iT^ 


aldine, forgive me for my want of faith in you, I might have 
known from the first that you were forced into a marriage with 
that wretch. I ought to have believed that you loved me still. 
Forgive, forgive I” 

Then a sudden pang of remorseful recollection struck his 
heart like a sword. Geraldine understood intuitively. Her 
arms loosened their hold about his neck ; the tears of joy dried 
upon her cheeks ; she stood before him, erect, and trying to be 
calm. But in her heart she felt that she had got her death- 
blow. 

“Yes,” she returned, with outward calm; “I understand. 
Where is your wife, Howard Ashley.?' Where is this woman 
whom you have chosen — this Catherine Dexter, who has stolen 
your heart, your name, from me .? You must choose between 
us now — between the new love and the old. Where is she, 
Howard .? You must take me to her.” 

Then Howard told Geraldine all about Kittie, and that the 
announcement of 'the marriage between them was fictitious — a 
part of the plot to carry out the ends of her father and Sir John 
Sydney. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

god’s l.\w. 

“ Lola, you have heard all my miserable story ; I ask you 
now to answer my question. I would not trouble you at this 
juncture, when you are so occupied with the punishment of this 
man who has made a desert of my sister’s life, and who, I trust, 
will soon suffer as he deserves; but, darling, I must know soon 
— the suspense is killing me. Oh, Lola, I have loved you so 
long — ever since the night when I found you alone in the de- 
serted cottage, at your dead mother’s side. Lola, I feel certain 
that you love me — tell me — will you be my wife 

Lola had been walking slowly up and down in a lonely, se- 
cluded place, a short distance outside the village where Lloyd 
had take rooms for himself and Geraldine. 

She turned her head and glanced into his face, and he saw for 
the first time how deathly pale she had grown. There was a 
strange, sad look in the depths of her lustrous eyes, and the 
hand in his own grew suddenly cold, and trembled like an 
aspen. 

“Yes,” she said, quietly.; “I will., tell you. , Perhaps it is 


4 SEVERE THREAT, 


243 


best' that it should be told out in the open air,’ under God's free 
heaven. It may ease a little the fearful pain of telling you, 
Lloyd, that although I love you with all my heart (surely there 
is no sin in my confessing it to you for the first and last time ), 
I cannot be your wife !” 

He gazed into her clear eyes like one who hears but does not 
comprehend. 

“Not my wife he faltered, at last. “Lola, you are jest- 
ing. Great Heaven ! I shall go mad if you torture me thus 
much longer !" 

She drew her hand from his grasp. 

“ Lloyd,” she said, softly, “do you think it possible for me 
to jest in a matter like this — so important to you ? No ; I speak 
the simple truth. I cannot marry you ; for I do not believe 
that a divorced man has any right to marry again while the wo- 
.man who was his wife is still living. ” 

“Lola!” 

“ While the woman lives !” she said, slowly, “we are indeed 
parted, oh, my love ! But, after this poor life is over, I shall 
be yours 1” 

He caught her to his heart 

“After this life!” he repeated, with passionate bitterness. 
“Do you expect to wait for death to unite us } Ah, no, Lola, 
God never intended such a horrible sacrifice ! The law has 
made us free. Why should you not be my own wife, dear.?” 

“The law of man,” returned the girl, softly, “not the law 
of God. Lloyd, have you forgotten ? ‘ What God hath joined 
together, let no man put asunder.’” 

He laughed sardonically. 

“You have my answer, Lloyd. God knows how it breaks 
my heart to say it, hut I zwwj'/say, farewell.” 

And she turned away. 

With a muttered “God help me!” Lloyd Vernon rushed 
away in the opposite direction, a mad impulse in his heart, to 
take his life into his own hands, and end all his torture. 

Once more alone, Lola paused, and glanced about her. 
Glancing downward^ she shuddered, for right at her feet lay the 
deep dark ravine ; the jagged rocks, like saw teeth ; away, away 
beyond her eyesight below. 

As she hesitated, out from behind a clump of shrubbery near, 
a slim, graceful figure in a black dress, crept like a snake, and 
a face peered out from the tangled vines behind her. That face, 
with its steely, glinting eyes, and hatred, ay, murder, in every 


244 


A SEVEIIE THREAT. 


lineament, was the face of her mortal foe, Lady Venetia Chan- 
dos. 

Nearer, nearer she crept to the edge of the rocky ravine 
yawning at her feet. Stealthily she dropped one hand upon 
Lola’s shoulder. 

“ Die !” she hissed, stepping aside, involuntarily. 

There was a wild shriek, followed by a rushing sound, as of 
a falling body, which caught the air with a dull thud, as it struck 
the horrible rocks below, and after that — all was still. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A RING TO WEAR. 

“ Dot, why do you not wear my ring?" 

Dot glanced up with a start as Hal Dexter asked the ques- 
tion. She was still wi<h the Dexters at the hotel. 

“ I — I do not understand you !" faltered Dot. 

“ I mean the ring that I sept you in the last bouquet that you 
received at the Coronet. 1 remember your thanking me for the 
gift, with as much gratitude as though it had been the Koohi- 
noor ; but somehow I never see you wear it. Tell me. Dot, do 
you despise the giver so greatly that you decline to wear his 
gift ?" 

Dot’s face was crimson as she bent her head ; but the brown 
eyes shone like diamonds under their long lashes. 

“ Halton Dexter," she said, with slow emphasis, “ tell me 
the plain, honest truth ; would you marry an actress ? Many 
men would shrink from the idea. They would believe that the 
woman whom they loved would cling to the stage life, and if 
once debarred from following the chosen and beloved pro- 
fession, would never be happy off the boards, but would 
always have a secret longing for the forbidden life on the 
stage. Now, for my part " 

She checked herself suddenly, and a burning blush over- 
spread her face. 

“For your part, what, darling?" queried the young man, 
eagerly. “Goon, Dot; I insist !" 

“Well, I was going to say that for my part if ever — mind, I 
say i/" ever I should happen to learn to care for any man, and 
should become his wife, I would give up the stage, willingly, 
freely, and would be only too glad to settle down to a quiet, 
domestic life. Home, love, who could reasonably ask more ?" 


A THREAT. 


245 


He drew her to his side. 

“No one, dear,'’ he answered, “and they shall be yours, 
and I will prove the truest, fondest husband that ever lived ! 
I will have no other hope or ambition save you, and — 
home.” 

He might have gone on in that way for an indefinite time, 
that being the fashion of lovers in general ; but right in the 
midst of his rhapsody, little matter-of-fact Dot inquired sud- 
denly : 

“ Hal, who d® you think was at the bottom of the at- 
tempt to carry me off.? Do you know anything about the 
matter ?” 

His handsome face clouded. 

“ Yes,” he answered. “I was about to tell you when I 
entered the room a short time since, but, somehow, it was 
forgotten. I have discovered, for the ruffian has made a full 
confession — by the way, he has been awarded a good long 
term in ‘ durance vile ' — he admits that he was hired by Sir 
John Sydney some time ago to remove you from the way, 
that you might not be able to appear against him as a wit- 
ness of his crimes. The man confesses that he has been 
trying to get you into his power for some time, but was not 
successful until that memorable night. Oh, Dot, how grate- 
ful I am that I was able to help you !” 

She slipped her hand into his. 

“ God bless you !” she whispered. 

And then, moved by a sudden impulse, she related to 
Hal her strange and romantic dream. 

“As true as I live,” she said, in conclusion, “it was your 
own face that I saw.” 

He caught her in his arms and would not let her go. 

“Dottie, will you wear my ring now.” 

For answer, she drew forth a tiny gold chain which she wore 
about her neck, and showed him the diamond ring suspended 
from it, where, out of sight, she had always worn it — a talisman, 
she said. 

He slipped it on her finger, with a tender kiss ; and so the 
engagement was ratified. 


246 


A SJS!ri:BJ^ TIIBEAT. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

A SHATTERED DREAM. 

Kittie Dexter sat alone in her own chamber at the hotel. In 
her hand was a letter whose contents had driven all the color 
from her cheek, and had brought a wild, hunted look into her 
eyes. Poor Kittie ! 

The letter was from Howard, and in it he told her — striving 
to soften the blow as best he might, for his heart was full of 
pity for the girl — told her of the strange events which had so 
lately occurred ; told her that his wife was still living, and that 
they were reunited ; and Kittie understood, without any expla- 
nation, that he had never ceased to love Geraldine. 

She went down stairs to find Hal, and there discovered that 
the strange tidings had already preceded her. Mrs. Atherton 
said nothing ; but Hal met her in the door of their pretty 
parlor, and kissed her pale face without a word. But Kittie 
understood. 

“ Hal,” she said, after a time, “would it be convenient for 
you to leave London soon — at once } I — I want to go — to — 
Waltham !” 

“This minute if you wish, Kittie,” he answered ; “but do 
you think you are quite equal to the step .? Do you think you 
can meet her — Mrs. Ashleigh — you know 

Her face grew paler, and the look of suffering deepened in 
her eyes. 

“Yes,” she answered, calmly. “I — I do not begrudge the 
poor girl her happiness, although it has cost me dear. And 
Dot can accompany us, if she will. You have spoken to Dot, 
have you, Hal 

He nodded. 

“She has promised to be my wife,” he answered. “And, 
Kittie, I think — if it would not be unpleasant to you — that we 
had better have the affair over at once. Would you mind it 
Kittie ?” 

“Oh, no,” she returned, quickly. “ I am anxious to see 
you happy. Let the wedding take place as soon as you can 
coax Dot to consent. Dear little girl !” 

And warm-hearted Kittie, choking back her own sorrow, 

heroically set to work in her task of persuasion. For it re- 


A SEFFBB THBEAT. 


247 


quired considerable arguing to bring Dot over to their side of 
the question ; but at last all difficulties were overcome, and 
one evening the Dexter party, with Dot Wylde, entered a cer- 
tain church in a retired part of London, And when they 
emerged, not long after, there was no longer any Dot Wylde, 
but a demure-looking little person, who, henceforth, would 
answer to the name of Mrs. Halton Dexter. 

The next day the party started for Waltham. Dot was full 
of joy at the prospect of seeing Lola once more ; yet there were 
grave misgivings in her heart. For she had received no letter, 
no tidings from her friend in many days ; and as Lola had 
hitherto been a prompt correspondent. Dot feared that she 
might be ill. But all fears, all unpleasant thoughts were dis- 
missed now as the train flew onward. Dot remembered only 
that she was with the man she loved, her own husband. 

She was sincerely grieved to observe K ittie s pallor, and the 
quiet manner, which proved more plainly than words could 
have done how the shait had struck home, and the arrow of 
sorrow rankled in the girls pure heart. But Kittie had cruci- 
fied self. She had put away her own love, her own wishes, 
and thought only of the happiness of others. And, after all, 
this is the only true life to live. And believing this, Kittie 
unselfishly dedicated her future to the welfare of those about 
her. 

The train sped onward, and at length steamed into Waltham. 
It was nearly sunset of a lovely day. The quaint old town lay 
bathed in the golden glory of the dying sunbeams; every 
church-spire was tipped with gold, and the long yellow gleams 
rested upon the white tombs in the old grave-yard. They fell 
athwart the group which was just entering its opening gates, a 
solemn little procession with bowed heads. 

“A funeral V exclaimed Hal, solemnly. “I wonder whose 
it can be. ” 

“None of our friends, I trust,” returned Dot, with unusual 
gravity. “Oh, Hal !” and she paused in wild alarm, catching 
her husband’s arm with both hands in sheer desperation, 
“ what — what — if it should be Lola?” 

“ Some one would have written or telegraphed to you, my 
darling,” he answered, “be sure of that. Wait. There (oh, 
I wish Kitty were not here with us), there is Howard, and — 
and his wife, I believe. And— see. Dot, w/io is that beautiful 
lady?” 

But Dot did not hear a word. She had darted forward with 


248 


A MVmE TIII^BAT. 


arms outstretched, panting, eager, breathless, to fling them 
about the lady of whom her husband had spoken. 

“Lola ! oh, Lola !’' she panted, “I — I was afraid that you 
were dead ! Lola, is it really you, or 

Lola smiled sadly. 

“One does not often attend one’s own funeral,” she returned ; 
“at least not in the character of mourner. No, dear — where 
did you spring from anyway ? — it is the funeral of Lady Venetia 
Chandos. ” 

“ Mercy 1 When did she die ?” 

Lola’s face was very pale. 

“She — she attempted to push over Dead Man’s Cliff. 
You know the place, Dot. But in her blind fury she made a 
misstep, and went over the side of the ravine, down to instant 
death. Oh,” with a violent shudder, “it was horrible 1” 
Then, after a pause of silence, Lola inquired : “When did you 
arrive, and who are your friends ? I believe that you are keep- 
ing something from me. That’s not like you, Dot Wylde.” 

“Not Dot any more,” returned the little bride, with a 

blush, and laying a card in Lola s hand as she spoke. 

Too astonished to utter a word, Lola glanced at the card, to 
find engraven thereon : “Mrs. Halton Dexter.” 

She caught Dot in her arms. 

“Oh, Dot,” she whispered, kissing her friend tenderly, “how 
glad I am ! Halton Dexter is a great friend of Lloyd’s — Mr. 
Vernon’s. ” 

“Yes,” quoth Dot; “and — I think I can foresee another 
wedding looming up in the distance.” 

But Lola shook her head gravely, and turned away. 

The solemn little group gathered about the great Chandos 
tomb, and soon “ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ was said, and 
the door of the tomb closed forever upon the beautiful Lady 
Venetia, until that great day when the graves shall open, and 
all the dead shall come forth. 

They turned away sadly and slowly, and left the fair body to 
return to its mother earth, and the spirit to the hands of the 
great Judge of all finite creatures. 


A SEVERE THREAT. 


249 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

AT LAST. 

“ Kittie, 'whz.i can I say to you, my poor wronged friend? 
Will you believe me when I tell you — God knows that it is true 
— that I never meant to wrong you in any way ?" 

Howard Ashleigh’s face was very pale and grave as he uttered 
these words, his dark eyes upon Kittie Dexter’s white face. She 
bowed her head. 

“You are exonerated from any intentional wrong,, Mr. 
Ashleigh,” she returned. “ I do not attempt to imply that 
my life is not saddened — that I have not received a fearful 
wound ; but all wounds heal with time, you know, and I 
shall not die, because strength to bear will be given me. God 
bless you, my friend, and — and — Geraldine !” 

Kittie laid her little hand in his. I know not how she con- 
trolled herself to meet Geraldine ; but she did, and greeted 
her with kindliness, and the day eventually came when the two 
were firm friends. 

The day arrived for the trial of Sir John Sydney. There was 
such overwhelming evidence against him that no one believed 
that he would escape with less than capital punishment. On 
the morning of the eventful day Lionel Vernon called at the 
prison to see the baronet. He was admitted, and a long con- 
ference ensued. He came forth pale and agitated, and a 
rumor crept abroad that at the very last moment he had quar- 
reled with his friend, the prisoner. 

The trial progressed. Little new evidence was brought for- 
ward ; but every one saw that the case was going dead against 
him from the first. 

When Lola was giving her evidence over again, as required 
by the court, he seemed unable to control his anger, and as he 
listened again to the fearful testimony of his own child, he 
foamed at the mouth like a wild beast. 

“ It is a lie !” he hissed, infuriated at her words — “a false, 
wicked invention, and she knows it ! Furthermore, she knows 
that I never married Stella Gilroy. Look in the record in St. 
Stephen’s church, Greenfields, and if you find there is such an 
entry, I am willing to meet a felon’s fate. Where is the record 
of a marriage between John Gordon and Stella Gilroy ? I de- 
mand it/' 


250 


A THREAT. 


Some one — a tall, clerical-looking old man — had reached the 
witness-stand, and was trying to make himself heard. 

The judge demanded silence in the court, and turned his at- 
tention to the new witness. 

After the usual formalities, the old man produced a folded 
paper, and proceeded to read aloud from it. It was a record of 
the marriage of one John Gordon to Stella Gilroy ; said cere- 
mony having been performed by the Reverend Andrew' Chan- 
ning, and properly witnessed. 

“ This is my private copy of the record,” explained the old 
man, when he had concluded the reading of the document. 
“Some time ago the book containing the public record was 
stolen from the church, for some unlawful purpose, doubtless, 
by parties unknown.” 

Sir John Sydney knew very well, that was quite evident, for 
he w'as tearing up and down the limited space where he was 
confined as far as the two grenadier-like policemen on either 
side would permit. 

Suddenly he came to a halt. His red face grew redder, then 
paled to a dull, ashen hue ; his eyes stared wildly into space ; 
he pointed one shaking hand straight before him, while his dry 
lips parted. 

“Great Heaven !” he groaned, “she is there ! Stella! oh, 
Stella 1 with the awful hole in her breast where the knife went 
in, and her great, staring, dark eyes fixed upon me ! and, 
listen I she is speaking I See her pale, blood-stained lips * 
open 1 

“ Murderer !” she says, “ beware !” 

There was a gurgling gasping in his throat ; his hands beat 
the empty air wildly ; then, with a muttered gasp, he fell for- 
ward upon his face, and when they lifted him up he was dead. 
Apoplexy had done its work, and the sinful soul was beyond 
the punishment of man. The last of the Sydneys had met a 
dreadful death. 

They buried him two days afterward, and the great tomb of 
the Sydneys was sealed up, never to be opened again. 

Sir John Sydney's immense fortune reverted to Lola, as his 
child. She sold Sydney House at once, where Lloyd Vernon 
had been imprisoned by the baronet, that his presence might be 
prevented at the marriage of Sir John and Geraldine ; for the 
wikecd man knew full well that Lloyd would never permit the 
cruel sacrifice to take place. The estate settled up, the prepa- 
tions for the marriage of Lloyd and Lola were hastened, and 


A sevi:be threat. 


251 


one fair morning in early spring-time they stood up in the old 
ivy-covered church at Waltham, and were made man and wife. 
After great darkness had come the light of perfect day. 

When the steamship Cambria sailed for New Orleans, a week 
later, she bore among her passengers Lloyd Vernon and wife, 
Halton Dexter and wife, Howard Ashleigh and the wife to 
whom, after so much suffering and strange trials, he had been 
at last reunited. There was a certain dashing young officer on 
board the vessel, who became so alarmingly attentive to Kiltie 
that — I believe the report had some truth in it — that next fall 
there will be another wedding. 

“ Let us hope that Kittie will be happy. She has “ fought 
the good fight,'’ and has learned a rare lesson of self-conquest. 

Howard and Geraldine will not remain long in America ; they 
will soon return to “merrie England,” where a new grave has 
lately been made in the Waltham grave-yard, in which Lionel 
Vernon, a sorrowing, repentant man, has been laid away out of 
sight. Old Zingra follows the fortunes of her beloved Lola, who 
would not part with her old friend — she is more friend than ser- 
vant — for all the world. 

And so we bid them all farewell — these actors in a life drama, 
whose effects are still felt in the lives of those concerned. 

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